Noonshade

by James Barclay

  With deep foundations and internal buttressing, the walls, never less than fifty feet in height, sloped very slightly outward as they rose, overlooking an area of gently undulating grass and shrubland, cleared for over a hundred yards in every direction to provide defending mages with a clear field of vision.

  And inside, Styliann could see the lights beginning to shine in the Towers of Xetesk. The sight saddened him more than he cared to admit to himself, his unwanted exile pulling at his heart.

  With a hundred eyes staring at him from the walls and gate towers, Styliann considered the problems he faced in gaining entry to Xetesk. Guessing the next likely action depended very much on your point of view. The average Xeteskian guardsman looking out at their Lord of the Mount and the Protector army would be confused. The more enlightened would surmise political unrest on the Mount but none would know yet that there had been an attempted usurpation. Even Dystran was not fool enough to claim stewardship until he could parade Styliann's corpse.

  Inside the Mount, those few remaining loyal to Styliann would be working on a way to see him safely into the College, knowing that he couldn't fly in without weakening his mind shield—an almost certainly fatal act. Presumably, they would be negotiating with Dystran and his aides, demanding audience for Styliann in controlled conditions, probably a Cold Room.

  For his part, Dystran, because he was a dithering imbecile without the wit to govern, would be hoping in vain for some preemptive action from Styliann and his Protectors. Anything that would allow him to unleash magical offence with the blessing of the Xeteskian public. But even then he would have to exercise caution. Any aggression aimed at Styliann would trigger the Protectors and they could do significant damage to Xetesk and the College before they were stopped. All Styliann could do was wait. He wasn't kept long.

  Perhaps an hour after his arrival, and with a cool moonlit night giving Styliann's quiet camp an eerie hue, the gate tower filled with archers and mages and the gate itself edged slightly ajar. One man stepped out. The gate closed. The archers and mages remained on station. Styliann rose to his feet and walked away from the warmth of his fire to approach the lone man, Cil at his shoulder, the rest of the Protectors bearing mute witness from a short distance.

  “Well, well. Dystran. I am honoured.” Neither man offered a hand though Styliann had to admit some small respect that the new Lord of the Mount had chosen to meet him personally.

  “What is it that you want, Styliann?” demanded Dystran, attempting to appear disinterested though the flicker of his eyes betrayed his nervousness.

  “Oh, just a bed for the night. I am but a weary traveller,” said Styliann, his tone caustic. “What in all the hells do you think I want?”

  Dystran flinched at Styliann's sudden ire. “I cannot let you back in. The decision has been made. I am Lord of the Mount.”

  Styliann's lips thinned. “But I came back, didn't I? You knew that I would.”

  “Once I knew you were still alive and in the East, yes,” admitted Dystran.

  “Yes,” said Styliann. “Unfortunate for you, wasn't it?”

  Dystran's mouth tugged up at the corners. “A little.”

  Styliann studied his face carefully, letting the silence grow.

  “At the present time you preside over very little,” said the former Lord of the Mount. “An unrestrained rip eats at the sky threatening cataclysmic invasion from another dimension and only I and The Raven have the wit to try and search for an answer. The Wesmen are battering at the gates of Julatsa. They hold Understone and the pass and tens of thousands are poised to sweep toward Korina at will. And what have you and your supporters done in my absence?

  “Rather than conduct research to my instruction or organise serious defence and send soldiers to the battle for Julatsa, you have chosen to further your own personal ends. And how sorry they will look when the dragons are taking the Towers apart, brick by brick.

  “If you were half a man you would see that our dispute has to be set aside until the threats to us all are gone. Right now, I need access to the Library. The destination of the Stewardship is currently unimportant.”

  “The Library? Then you wish to do in Xetesk what we have so far failed to do and what The Raven are trying to do in Julatsa?”

  Styliann tensed, his expression hardening. His eyes bored remorselessly into Dystran's. “The Raven have reached Julatsa?”

  Dystran nodded. “Contrary to your low opinion of our efforts, we are back in contact with Julatsa following the dispersal of their DemonShroud. It coincided with the rather extraordinary arrival of The Raven who apparently then released several thousand prisoners from a city swarming with Wesmen before setting to work on searching the Julatsan Library.”

  Styliann laughed aloud, a reaction Dystran clearly wasn't expecting.

  “Gods falling but they're good,” he said. “You have to hand it to them.” The humour dropped from his eyes and face. “Tell me, how long have they been in Julatsa?”

  “Since before dawn this morning,” replied Dystran.

  Styliann bit his lip. He would have to hurry or they'd pass through into the dragon dimension without him, something he could not allow. And then the mists cleared in his mind and the answer to his problems was there before him.

  “Let me make you a proposition,” he said, seeing Dystran frown and make a reflexive move backward. “I think it will be to your advantage.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “Naturally.”

  On the walls of Julatsa, the battle raged. Spells swept across the cobbled apron around the College, detonations shook foundations. The ring of metal, the shouts of men and women, the dull thud of catapult, the wash of mana flow as spell barrages ebbed and flowed; all of it filtered down into the Heart where Ilkar sat.

  With one ear constantly tuned to the fight outside, and ever ready to react should the quality and atmosphere of the sound change, he flicked through text after text, searching for note, reference and passage discussing Septern's work.

  Nearby, in the Library, Denser and Erienne taxed the librarians and archivists Barras had spared them, hoping for a breakthrough that looked increasingly unlikely as the day progressed to a blustery late afternoon.

  And in a chamber as far from the sounds of death and momentary glory as the College confines would allow, Hirad and The Unknown slept. Not that they needed the quiet. Part of the career warrior's art was the ability to sleep practically behind the front line. Hirad was particularly adept at snatching rest as the blood spattered his face, his innate sense of danger always waking him before his life was threatened. No, they didn't need the quiet but Ilkar was anxious to see they rested deeply. There were hard times to come.

  Ilkar rubbed his eyes and stared gloomily at the mass of books, scrolls and bundled papers he had still to sift through, next to the relatively small pile he had completed. He had known it would be difficult. Complete texts by Septern were rare and that pile of five bound volumes already sat at his right elbow, having been among the first brought to the Heart by Barras when the Wesmen threat grew. But all three Raven mages knew that much of Septern's wisdom, scribbled down on scraps of parchment, annotated on other texts or sketched on the backs of scrolls, was either lost, hidden or transcribed. All they had was reference, cross-reference and the incomplete knowledge of the archivists. Following another vague lead offered by the preceding parchment, he frowned, sighed and read on.

  In Julatsa's Library, the hours crawled, though the work had a deadline neither could forget. Erienne and Denser's arrival had, despite Barras’ assurances of good faith and assistance, been greeted with total suspicion by the archivists; three old men and a young student, who stared down their identically long noses and sniffed at every request.

  “It takes a certain sort to organise a library, don't you find?” Denser had said soon after they arrived.

  “They could be brothers of those in Dordover,” Erienne had agreed.

  “One magic, one mage,” Denser had
said, covering her hand with his. Erienne had smiled and placed a hand low down on her stomach, imagining her child moving within her though in truth she could feel nothing.

  “I hope so,” she had said.

  The archivists’ frosty attitude had warmed over the following hours as it became obvious that The Raven's mages had no intention of pillaging Julatsan secrets. Curt responses, thumped-down books and half-thrown scrolls had given way to slight smiles, words of help and encouragement and, eventually, to direct research assistance.

  The archive student sat at the desk with them, poring over a referential text of Julatsan lore, every now and then lifting a nervous head as the sounds of fighting reached his young ears.

  “We're in no immediate danger,” said Denser.

  “How do you know?” asked the student, Therus, his freckled face displaying his awe of the Dawnthief mage next to him.

  “Because Hirad Coldheart hasn't appeared to order us up to the walls,” replied Denser. “Keep calm. Your soldiers have great hearts. They won't crumble.”

  Mollified, Therus went back to his reading. Erienne smiled and Denser leaned back and stretched his aching neck, taking in the vast shelves of magical text, theoretical research, casting analysis and lore—the latter incomprehensible to him and passed to Ilkar if any potential use was indicated.

  They were seated at a desk near the door to the Library, facing an aisle flanked by five-tiered shelves that, studded by more desks, ran away fully two hundred feet. Five more such aisles made up the lower level and further shelves ranged around the walls, their highest texts accessible only by ladder. Two galleries held yet more of the accumulated wisdom of Julatsa and her allies, their ornate polished balustrades reflecting the gentle illumination cast by static LightGlobes. Below he knew, but hadn't seen, older and more delicate texts were stored in carefully controlled atmospheres where the light seldom shone.

  Julatsa's Library, like that of Xetesk, was heavy with age and history, its dry paper-dust mustiness a delight to the bookworm's nose. But, curiously for a building containing so much latent knowledge and power, the Library bore no mana weight. No yoke-like mass hung on the neck and, as Denser kneaded the taut back of his own with one hand and Erienne's with the other, he was very glad of the fact.

  “Where are we at?” he asked of anyone who cared to answer.

  “Nowhere particularly useful,” replied Erienne, nodding her thanks as further ribboned parchments were edged onto the desk at her right hand. “We have established a possible link between Septern's contained rip-building and the DimensionConnect used at Understone but nothing so far on the lore to combine the two into a closing pattern.

  “Therus vaguely remembers a note in the margin of a Julatsan text pertaining to mana flow and dimensional disruption caused by rip construction but can't find it and you have discovered a way to maintain your pipe bowl at a temperature that burns the weed more effectively.”

  “And very important it is too,” said Denser, a glint in his eye. Erienne thinned her lips.

  “It's a disgusting habit.”

  “It's my only vice.”

  “Hardly.”

  Therus cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt but I've found something.”

  “Good?” asked Denser.

  “Not entirely.”

  “Well, let's hear it.”

  The dreams chased themselves across Thraun's mind with a clarity he would be unable to forget on waking. All the thoughts, feelings, scents and urges of his lupine half played out in his human mind and, for the first time, he would remember everything.

  His consciousness fought to surface through the morass of his exhaustion and grief. A pit was open in his heart, and the protestations of his strained muscles, and bruised and stretched sinews and tendons merely added symphony to his sorrow.

  He lifted his lids on a reality he had previously seen only through other eyes. The white, he remembered. It was the colour of the walls, the sheets and the bandages. The people too, some lying still, others moving amongst them. Here there was comfort but it was mixed with death.

  Thraun mumbled the first of a thousand apologies to the friend he had failed and whose eyes, closed forever, no longer saw the world. The sound he made moved from whisper to growl and almost immediately he felt a hand on his brow, then the cool touch of a damp cloth. He focused, looking up to the face of an elderly woman whose lined skin surrounded eyes of stunning clear blue. She smiled down at him.

  “You do not have to fear retribution for what you are here,” she said, her voice quiet. “Here you can rest secure.”

  That they should be aware of his other form had not impinged on Thraun but he was calmed by the reassurance nonetheless. He didn't have the energy to frame the words of thanks but the woman seemed to understand.

  “Do not hide your grief,” she said. “It is human to cry. Your friends paid him great respect and he is at peace. Rest now. There is water by your bed. I am Salthea. Call me when you need me. Rest now.”

  Thraun nodded and turned his face away, unwilling to let her see the first of his tears.

  While waiting for Ilkar to arrive, Denser read and reread the entry Therus had found, Erienne doing the same. Its meaning was clear enough. There were other writings; important ones, detailing the living construct of interdimensional rips, how they sustained themselves against the buffeting of the void they travelled, how they affected the space around them, the implications of linking two dimensions and the implications of dissolving that link. To devise some kind of answer quickly enough to the problem staining the sky over Parve, they were writings The Raven needed.

  Septern, said the entry in a report made to the Julatsan Council over three hundred and fifty years before, had delivered a series of lectures to a high-level symposium at Triverne Lake covering a good deal of his theoretical understanding of dimensional magic. His lecture papers he had bequeathed to the sponsoring college. It was a typically Septern-like act—he had never felt allegiance to any college despite his Dordovan birth.

  It was just a pity the sponsoring college on that occasion had been Xetesk.

  “Would you believe it?” said Erienne.

  “Given Styliann's desire to get to Xetesk alone and unaided, yes I'm afraid I would,” said Denser.

  “You think he knows about these texts?”

  “Without a shadow of a doubt. He and Dystran both.”

  The door to the Library opened and Ilkar strode in, hands massaging his neck to relieve tension. Denser briefed him.

  “Next move?” asked the Julatsan, shaking his head. “What's your reading of Styliann on this one?”

  “He knows what we have to do and he'll be aware of the importance of these writings. The fact that he didn't tell us about them back in Parve tells me one thing. He wants to come to the dragon dimension with us.”

  “What for?” asked Ilkar.

  “Well, it's possible that he doesn't trust us to find the solution alone but, given our respective talents, I rather doubt that. No, I think he's curious, which doesn't worry me, and I think he wants to eye up potential gain for himself and Xetesk, which does.”

  “Gain?” Erienne was dismissive.

  “All I'm saying is, if he can do a deal with the dragons, or get some guarantees that aid Xetesk, whatever, he will.”

  “But he can't get there without us, can he?” said Ilkar.

  “Why not?” asked Erienne.

  “Because we hold both the keys to Septern's workshop,” said Ilkar. “So he still needs us to help him get to the dragon dimension. And frankly, I'm confident the Kaan won't just roll over to his demands. I'm not sure he quite understands how powerful they are.”

  “Such is the arrogance of the Lord of the Mount,” said Erienne. Denser shot her a sharp glance but said nothing.

  “So we'll take him with us?” he said.

  Ilkar shrugged. “To be honest, I don't see we have much choice. And I'm sure Hirad and The Unknown will see it that way. We have to close the r
ip first and worry about Styliann's motives later.”

  Denser nodded. “In that case, and returning to your original question, our next move, or rather my next move, is to commune with Styliann. Since we appear to need each other, we'd better at least know each other's position.”

  “All right,” said Ilkar. “And then we'd better wake the others and put our heads together and think of a way to get out of here.”

  “How's the battle going?” asked Erienne. All three of them became aware again of the noises outside.

  “Exactly as you might expect. The Wesmen are making thrusts toward the walls but are being knocked back by arrows and spells. Their catapult rounds are being held off the walls by our shields and they aren't really trying to get them over and into the College proper. They know what they're doing and so do we but there's nothing we can do about it. They'll wear the mages down and they know it. And then they'll mount a serious offensive and eventually take us.” Ilkar's face was impassive but Denser knew the turmoil he'd be feeling inside. Not only was he witnessing the probable sacking of his College, he also knew he'd be forced to leave before it fell.

  “And the Dordovans?” asked Denser.

  “Well, clearly they represent our only real chance. Estimates are they'll reach us sometime tomorrow morning but it's critical they attack in the right place. That may also present us with our best opportunity of getting away from here unscathed.” Ilkar paused and scratched his head. “Anyway, I'm going back to the Heart. Erienne, any news on Thraun?”

  “He's woken once but is sleeping again. Physically, he's just tired. Emotionally, who knows?”

  “Keep me posted, will you?” He turned to go. “See you a little later.”

  Denser watched the door close behind him. “I'm going to rest, love. I'll commune after dark.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Don't forget to replenish yourself. We need you.”