Styliann’s Tower was encircled by those of his six Mage Masters but stood far taller. Looking down, he saw lights burning in Laryon’s Tower too. The most recently appointed Master, he was a man who would now have to join the inner circle, completing the seven-tower bond.
‘This could mean everything to us,’ he said.
‘Laryon has worked hard,’ said Nyer, coming to his side. ‘He has earned the credit.’
‘And your man. He’ll see the necessary help is obtained?’
‘I have every confidence.’
Styliann nodded and gazed out over Xetesk, at ease that his people would obey his every order without question. The first step had been successfully taken but now the way would become fraught and those who knew enough would have to be kept close.
‘I think, Nyer, that when the wine arrives, we may permit ourselves a small celebration.’
Chapter 3
She lay back on the bed again, the pounding in her head bringing sweeping nausea through her body. She shuddered, prayed that she’d been sick for the last time but not really believing she had.
Every muscle ached, clotted with pain, every tendon strained. Her skin felt so tight across her chest it would split if she dared breathe in deep, and her shallow, gasping intakes drew whimpers as they stretched her tortured lungs. It would subside. However, having no idea how long she had been out, she had no idea when the symptoms would fade.
But the physical pain coursing through her body was as nothing to the well in her heart and soul, opened by the loss of her sons. Her reason to live. For them, her body quaked and shivered. She reached out with her mind, striving to touch theirs but knowing she could not and cursing her decision to delay the teaching of communion.
Where were they? Were they together? Gods, she hoped so. Were they alive? The tears came as the drug eased its hold on her body just a little. Great heaving sobs tore through her being and her cries echoed around her prison. Eventually, exhausted, she slept again.
Dawn and a second waking brought no relief from the agony of her loss. Pale light came through a single window high up in her circular room. She was in a tower, that much was certain. The room contained a small pallet bed, a desk and chair, and a woven rug whose red and gold had long ago faded but whose weight gave welcome insulation from the stone-flagged floor. She was still wearing the nightgown they had taken her in. She had not been wearing any socks, let alone shoes, and the room was chill. Dust covered every surface, puffing into the air around her body as she shifted uncomfortably on the bed. She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders.
A single door commanded her attention. It was locked and bolted, its heavy wood flush in the stone frame of the tower wall. The tears came again, but this time she was strong enough to force them back, driving her mind to seek the mana and a way out of the tower. It was there, pulsing within her and flowing around her, never stopping, always shifting and changing, urgent and random in its direction. Escape was just an incantation away. The door would prove no barrier to her FlameOrb.
But even as she readied to cast, the words came back. If you cast, your boys will die. Her senses returned and she found she was standing. She sagged into the chair.
‘Patience,’ she said. ‘Patience.’ Anger in a mage could be so destructive, and while she didn’t know the fate of her sons, she couldn’t afford to lose the famously short Malanvai family temper.
While the yearning in her heart and the ache in her womb intensified with every passing second, her mind was beginning to see clearly at last. They had known she was a mage because they took her from Dordover for something specific. But they also wanted control. And controlling a conscious mage is difficult without restraint and violence. But they had found a way to chain her through her sons. It was for that reason she believed them alive. And not only that, close. Because whoever took her must know she wouldn’t help them without seeing her boys first. Hope surged within her but the flicker of joy she felt at an imminent reunion died as she saw her locked door.
Her heart turned over at the thought of her boys, so young, so alone and so frightened. Snatched in the middle of the night and locked in a place they wouldn’t recognise or comprehend. How must they feel? Betrayed. Abandoned by those who claimed to love them the most. Terrified by their solitude and helplessness. Traumatised by separation from their mother.
Fury bubbled beneath the hurt.
‘Patience,’ she murmured. ‘Patience.’ They would have to come soon. While a jug of water had been left on the desk, there was no food in the room.
She fixed her eyes on the door while hatred for her captors seethed in her veins, the brophane dragged at her strength and her body pulsed mana and love to her children.
But when the key finally turned and the man she had dreaded seeing stood before her, she could do nothing but sob her thanks at his words.
‘Welcome to my castle, Erienne Malanvai. I trust you are recovering. Now, I think we had better reunite you with your beautiful little boys.’
It was cold and he sat alone on cracked earth in a vast featureless empty space. There was no wind yet something was moving his hair and when he looked in front of him the Dragon was there. Its head was big, he couldn’t see the rest of its body. It breathed on him and he just sat there as the skin was burnt from his face and his bones darkened and split. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He was flying above the land and it was black and smouldering. The sky above him was thick with Dragons but on the ground nothing was moving. He looked for his hands but they weren’t there and he felt for his face but the flesh was gone. It was hot. He was running. His arms were pumping hard but his legs moved so slowly. It was catching him and there was nowhere to run. He fell and there it was in front of him again. It breathed and he just sat there as the skin was burnt from his face and his bones darkened and split. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide and the heat scorched his eyes though he could not close them. He opened his mouth to scream.
Hands were about his face. He was sitting up but there was no Dragon, no blackened land. The fire was roaring in the grate. Ilkar put down the poker he’d been using to whip up the flames. Hirad thought it must be cold but he felt hot. Very hot. Talan and The Unknown were sitting up in their beds and it was Sirendor who was cupping his face.
‘Calm down, Hirad. It’s over. Just a dream.’
Hirad looked the room over again, breathing deeply, his heart beginning to slow.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
Sirendor patted his cheeks and rose to his feet. ‘Scared the life out of me,’ he said. ‘I thought you were dying.’
‘So did I,’ replied Hirad.
‘You and the rest of the castle,’ said Ilkar, stretching and yawning.
‘Loud, was I?’ Hirad managed a smile.
Ilkar nodded. ‘Very. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?’
‘I’ll never be able to forget. It was Dragons. Thousands of Dragons. And Sha-Kaan. But it wasn’t here. Wherever it was was dead. Their world, I think. Sha-Kaan told me they were destroying it. It was black and burned. And Sha-Kaan burned me but I didn’t die. I just sat and screamed but there was no sound. I don’t understand. How can there be another world? Where is it?’ He shivered.
‘I don’t know. All I do know is, I’ve never been so scared. Those things don’t exist.’
‘Yes they bloody do.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Sirendor. ‘You’ll have to talk to Ilkar. But later. Maybe we all should. All this talk of dimensions and Dragons. I don’t know.’ He stopped. Hirad wasn’t really listening.
‘What time is it?’
‘Dawn’s about an hour away,’ said The Unknown after hitching a drape aside.
‘I think I’ll pass on more sleep,’ said Hirad. He got up and started pulling on his breeches and shirt. ‘I’m going to the kitchens for some coffee.’ A look passed between Sirendor and the other three. Hirad couldn’t fathom it. ‘No problem, is there?’
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p; ‘No,’ said Sirendor. ‘No problem. I’ll join you.’
‘Thanks.’ Hirad smiled. So did Sirendor, but it seemed an effort for him. They left the room.
The castle kitchens never closed and heat filled the cavernous rooms from six open fires. Work and eating tables covered much of the floor space, and on racks around the walls hung pots, pans and utensils, some of which defied understanding. Smoke poured up chimneys and steam through open windows high above. The heat of the fires gave the kitchens a consoling warmth, and the sounds of orders mixed with laughter and carried on the smells of roasting meat and the sweet aromas of freshly baked bread brought back memories of a home life long lost.
On one of the fires a huge pot of water was kept boiling. Mugs and coffee grounds sat on trays near by. Ensconced at a table away from the clatterings of cooks and servants, the two men talked across their drinks.
‘You’re looking glum, Sirendor.’ The friends locked eyes. Sirendor’s seemed sorrowful. His brow was furrowed and his whole face wore trouble like an ill-fitting shirt. Hirad wasn’t used to it.
‘We’ve been talking.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? While you were asleep earlier.’
‘I don’t think I like the sound of this.’ Whatever it was, it was serious. He hadn’t seen Sirendor like this for years.
‘We’re not getting any younger.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard.’
‘Larn, I am thirty-one! You’re thirty and the big man’s just thirty-three and he’s the oldest! What are you talking about?’
‘How many hired men do you know who are over thirty and still front-line quality?’
Hirad drew breath. ‘Well, not many but, I mean . . . we’re different. We are The Raven.’
‘Yes, we are The Raven. And we’re getting too old to fight.’
‘You’re kidding! We hammered that lot yesterday.’
‘That’s the way you saw it, is it?’ Hirad nodded. Sirendor smiled. ‘I somehow thought you might. The way I saw it is we didn’t have our edge.’
‘That’s because we spend too much time standing and watching. Like I said, if we don’t do it, we’ll lose it.’
‘Gods, Hirad, you’re stubborn in the face of the facts. Do you think it’s a coincidence that we’ve slowly taken fewer front-line contracts and more advisory and back-up jobs over the last couple of years?’ Hirad said nothing. ‘What we had, that edge, has gone. When we were called in yesterday, we almost weren’t up to it.’
‘Oh, come on, Larn . . .’
‘Ras died!’ Sirendor looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘You could have died. Richmond made an unbelievable mistake and Ilkar lost the shield. If it hadn’t been for The Unknown we could have been wiped out. Us. The Raven!’
‘Yeah, but the explosion . . .’
‘You know as well as I do that two years ago we’d have been through them and at the mage before he had time to cast that spell. We have to adapt . . .’ Sirendor trailed off. He took a gulp of his coffee. Hirad just stared at him.
‘Hirad, I want us to be able to look back on the good days in another ten years’ time. If we try and keep The Raven going as it is, there won’t be any ten years.’
‘One dodgy fight and you want to give up.’
‘It’s not just about one fight. But yesterday was a warning of what could happen any time. We’ve seen the signs these past two years. We all have. It’s just that you chose to ignore them.’
‘You want to disband The Raven, the rest of you?’ asked Hirad. He was only half surprised to find his eyes moistening. His world was dropping to pieces before him and he couldn’t see a way out. Not yet.
‘Not necessarily. Perhaps just a rest to take stock.’ Sirendor leant back a little and spread his hands wide. ‘God knows, none of us needs the money any more to be comfortable. I sometimes think we must own half of Korina between us.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Look, the reason I’m bringing this up is that we want to have a meeting when we get back to the City. We need to talk it through, all of us, when we’ve had a little time to think.’
Hirad stared into his coffee, letting the steam warm his face. Silent again.
‘If we go on pretending it’s still like it was a few years ago, one day we won’t be fast enough. Hirad?’ The barbarian looked up. ‘Hirad, I don’t want to lose you the way we lost Ras.’ Sirendor sucked his lip, then sighed. ‘I don’t want to see you die.’
‘You won’t.’ Hirad’s voice was gruff. He swigged back his coffee and stood up, having to push his lips together to be sure they wouldn’t tremble. ‘I’m going to see to the horses,’ he said at length. ‘We may as well make an early start.’ He strode out of the kitchens and through the castle to the courtyard, where he stopped, staring at the place that might have witnessed The Raven’s last fight. He wiped angrily at his eyes and headed for the stables.
Ilkar too decided against further rest and went instead to Seran’s chambers. The mage from Lystern, smallest of the four College Cities, had been moved to a low table in his study, a sheet covering his body. Ilkar pulled the sheet back from Seran’s face. He frowned.
The dead mage’s skin was taut across his skull and his hair completely white. He hadn’t looked that way the previous evening. And the cut on his forehead, now it was clean, looked as if it had been made with a small claw.
He heard movement behind him and turned to see Denser, the Xetesk mage, standing in the doorway to the bedroom. His pipe smoked gently in his mouth and the cat was in his cloak. Ilkar found the pipe incongruous. Denser was by no means an old man, though his exertions had given him an appearance well beyond his mid-thirties years.
‘An unfortunate result, but inevitable,’ said Denser. He looked terribly tired. His face was grey and his eyes dark and sunken. He leaned against the door frame.
‘What happened to him?’
Denser shrugged. ‘He was not a young man. We knew he might die.’ He shrugged again. ‘There was no other way. He wanted to stop us.’
‘We.’ In Ilkar’s mind, the coin dropped. ‘The cat.’
‘Yes. He’s a Familiar.’
Ilkar pulled the sheet back over Seran’s head and moved towards Denser. ‘Come on, you’d better sit down before you fall down. There’s questions I need answering.’
‘I didn’t think this was a social call.’ Denser smiled.
‘No.’ Ilkar did not.
Once seated, Ilkar looked at Denser sprawled on Seran’s bed and didn’t have to ask his first question. The Xeteskian wouldn’t have had the strength to try leaving the castle last night.
‘Overdid it yesterday, did you?’ asked the Julatsan.
‘There was work to do once I had recovered this,’ agreed Denser, pulling the amulet from his cloak, where it hung from its chain round his neck. ‘I presume this is what you wish to talk about.’
Ilkar inclined his head. ‘What sort of work?’
‘I had to know whether it was the piece we were after.’
‘And was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Xetesk sent you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And this battle?’ Ilkar waved a hand around vaguely.
‘Well, let’s just say it was fairly easy to place me in an attack force but it wasn’t staged for my benefit, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So why didn’t you just join the garrison defence?’
‘With a Dragonene mage in residence? Hardly.’ Denser chuckled. ‘I’m afraid Seran and Xetesk didn’t see eye to eye.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ muttered Ilkar.
‘Come now, Ilkar, we are none of us that different from each other.’
‘Bloody hell! Is the conceit of Xetesk that great that your Masters really believe all mages are essentially alike? That is an insult to magic itself and a failing in your teaching.’ Ilkar could feel the anger surging in him. His cheeks were hot and his eyes narrowed to slits. The blindness of Xetesk was sometimes staggerin
g. ‘You know where the power comes from to shape mana for the spells you were casting yesterday. There is no blood on my hands, Denser.’
Denser was quiet for a while. He relit his pipe and picked his cat out of his cloak, dropping it on to the bed. The animal stared at Ilkar while the Dark Mage ruffled its neck. Ilkar’s temper frayed further but he held his tongue.
‘I think, Ilkar,’ said Denser at length, blowing out a series of smoke rings, ‘that you shouldn’t accuse my Masters of failings in their teaching until you are aware of the shortcomings in your own.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Denser spread his palms. ‘Do you see blood on my hands?’ ‘You know what I mean,’ snapped Ilkar.
‘Yes, I do. And you should also know that a Xeteskian mage has more than one source for his mana. As, no doubt, have you.’
There was silence between them, though around them the castle corridors were beginning to echo with the sounds of another day.
‘I will not discuss College ethics with you, Denser.’
‘A pity.’
‘Pointless.’
‘A shortcoming in your teaching, Ilkar?’
He ignored the jibe. ‘I need to know two things. How did you know about Seran and that amulet, and what is it?’
Denser considered for a while. ‘Well, I’m not about to divulge College secrets, but unlike you, apparently, Xetesk has always taken Dragonene lore seriously - patchy though it may be. Our work in dimensional research has led us to develop a spell that can detect the kind of disturbance caused by the opening of an interdimensional portal, like the one we went through yesterday. We suspected Seran - I won’t tell you why - we targeted his chambers and got the desired result. I was sent to retrieve Dragonene artefacts and I got this.’ He took the amulet from its chain and tossed it to Ilkar, who turned it over a couple of times, shrugged and threw it back.
‘It has Dragonene lore on it, written in all four College lore scripts,’ said Denser, rehanging it on its chain. A brief smile touched his lips. ‘It will be incredibly useful to our research and, when we’re done with it, we can simply name our price. You would not believe what collectors will pay for a piece like this.’
The Raven Collection Page 5
