The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Denser walked as calmly as he could to the door of the library and summoned the guard to see him out of the Tower, across the grounds and into the streets of Dordover. Only there did he start to relax, a broad grin spreading across his face. He had to find the others and quickly. Vuldaroq might not welcome them for much longer.

  It wasn’t until early the next morning that the archivist’s nagging itch led him back to the Tinjata Prophecy for another look. His swearing shattered the calm of the library.

  The Raven, if you could call them that, had come and gone in two days. So far as Vuldaroq and his network could gather, they had found out nothing new, which was something of a shame but hardly a surprise. The Dordovan College guard and mage spies had interrogated every possible contact and lowlife in the City. Spies and assassins were tracking every lead but so far, though some clues to her direction were known, there was nothing as to her final destination.

  Yet still he felt satisfied that his plans were forming well. The bait had been taken and Vuldaroq felt he could relax in the knowledge that Balaia’s finest were immersed in the search. All that irked him was that, though Denser had taken in the information Vuldaroq had wanted him to from the prophecy, he had stolen that which was not on offer. And the Tower Lord did not want to risk him finding someone to translate the lore for him. Someone, for instance, like his lore scribe wife, Erienne.

  He had come to a bar well away from the College and just east of the central cloth market, a well-to-do area where a senior mage could relax without interruption and meet discreetly with whom he pleased. This time, his companion was less brash and arrogant than at their first, rather difficult meeting, but was no less driven.

  ‘You have to understand that the nature of mages has changed since the Wesmen invasion. We cannot afford to wantonly sacrifice each other to satisfy the cravings of a maimed Black Wing. We are trying to regain our strength, not pare it still further.’ Vuldaroq took a long drink from his goblet and refilled it from the carafe of very expensive Blackthorne red. A serving woman brought another bowl of Korina Estuary mussels and oysters. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘But you understand my price cannot be reduced,’ said Selik, his face hooded. ‘I will have the bitch, with or without your blessing, but together it will be easier for us all to achieve our ultimate goals.’

  Vuldaroq chuckled. Selik had been lucky to escape with his life from the College and had done so only with Vuldaroq’s personal intervention. Even so, the Black Wing had left pale and shaken, freed from the entrapping spells in which he had been so quickly entwined. There had been shouting, pushing and recrimination but most of all there had been a shocked disbelief, and it had been this that had allowed Vuldaroq to get Selik away.

  ‘Erienne is still one of our most talented and fertile mages. Her death would be a blow the College would feel keenly. I do not necessarily share the College’s view.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I will meet your price but you must operate only through me. And now I have organised for you a little assistance.’

  ‘Who?’ Selik’s single eye stared bleakly from his cowl.

  ‘The Raven.’

  Selik laughed, a pained, rasping noise that shuddered his ruined lung. ‘And what help can they give me? I am already closer to your precious prize than they will ever be.’

  ‘I would advise you never to underestimate The Raven or their resourcefulness. And for all your torture of the elf you suspect of belonging to this Guild of Drech, he revealed nothing. The Raven are a useful extra force. Monitor them as I will and use what you find as you see fit. As I will.’

  Selik rose. ‘Then I am already late. The Raven left some hours ago.’

  ‘And headed south,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘One more thing, Black Wing. Remember with whom you are dealing. Erienne left in response to a signal that pierced our mana shield as easily as a knife through water. They retain great magical power and I need to know where they are. See that Erienne does not die before she tells you their location. But see that she does die.’

  Selik bowed very slightly. ‘My Lord Vuldaroq, strange though this union of ours is, we both understand that magic is a necessary force. The Black Wings only seek to cut the mould from the otherwise healthy fruit. We are both fighting for the same cause.’ He left the inn, Vuldaroq’s eyes on him all the way.

  ‘I don’t think so, Selik,’ muttered the mage to himself as he prised open another oyster. Unexpected pieces were being added to what could turn out to be a very satisfying conclusion. Perhaps more than one enemy would be laid to rest forever. In a while he would have to organise the interception of The Raven and the taking of the stolen parchment, but for now he had more oysters to enjoy and Vuldaroq was not a man to let excellence go to waste.

  Outside, the wind was getting up, rattling the windows of the inn. Dordover could be in for a stormy night.

  The day dawned bright, light streaming through cracks in the barn walls. Ilkar, The Unknown and Denser had begged the shelter from a farmer, happening upon his land late at night with the wind battering at their bodies. But it had blown over quickly and now was just an unpleasant memory.

  Ilkar rolled over and sat up in his makeshift bed of hay, in the loft above the animals, and came face to face with Denser.

  ‘Gods, but I shouldn’t have left Julatsa,’ he said. ‘Every morning for days, I’ve been waking next to a beautiful face and figure and for some twisted reason, I’ve exchanged that for your bloody beard and stinking armpit odour.’

  ‘You know you’ve missed them,’ said Denser, scratching at his short-trimmed beard.

  ‘No,’ said Ilkar, heading for the ladder. ‘I have not.’

  ‘Hey!’ The Unknown’s voice came from below. ‘Stop chattering and get moving.’

  ‘You heard the man,’ said Ilkar, smiling.

  ‘Just like old times,’ muttered Denser.

  ‘Absolutely nothing like old times whatsoever,’ returned Ilkar.

  Outside the barn, they followed The Unknown who was striding up towards the farmhouse across an empty paddock. All the horses were still in the barn and stables. Inside the two-storey house’s kitchen, a plate of ham steamed on a long table and the aroma of a sweet leaf tea filled the air. Ilkar raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Very decent of him,’ he said, sitting next to The Unknown and forking some meat on to a thick slice of bread.

  ‘Not really,’ said The Unknown. ‘I’ve paid him.’

  The farm was fifteen miles south of Dordover and one of a cluster lying in a shallow valley near the main trail to Lystern. Occupied during the Wesmen invasion, they had been rebuilt, their fields replanted and animal stocks replenished, restoring them to their key position, supplying both Colleges. Mage-friendly, Ilkar had been confident they’d get a good reception from any of the farms and, since neither he nor Denser had been keen to remain in Dordover, the settlement had been the obvious choice.

  ‘Now listen,’ said The Unknown. ‘It’s apparent that the Dordovans are very serious in their attempts to find Erienne and Lyanna and that means we have to be efficient. So far they’ve squandered their fifty-day advantage but it can’t go on forever and their mage spies will be everywhere, just listening. We should also consider the possibility that we’ll be followed.

  ‘Now, that curious friend of Will’s told us about activity to the south of the City on the night Erienne left, if you can believe what he said, and even more unreliably, that drunk you found, Denser, reckoned he’d seen a woman and a girl getting into a carriage in about the same place.’

  ‘So what?’ asked Denser. ‘We already knew they left Dordover. It tells us nothing.’

  The Unknown shook his head and sipped the tea. ‘Think, Denser. You’ve spent too much time dabbling in Xetesk’s politics. It tells us two things and we can infer a third. First, that they had help, wherever they were going. Second, a carriage suggests a longish trip. Third, they headed south.’ He held up a hand to stop Denser speaking. ‘Now I’m sure the Dordovans
have guessed as much and no doubt they have representatives in every town and city south of here. What they don’t have is the information I found out yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘What information?’ Ilkar frowned.

  ‘Sorry not to share this until now but too many people knew why we were in Dordover. I bumped into an old merchant friend of mine who travels a good deal between Greythorne and Dordover. He saw a carriage driven by an elf leaving Greythorne three weeks back and heading for Arlen. I know it’s not much but it’s more than Vuldaroq knows. I think that’s where we should be headed.’

  ‘Will this friend talk to anyone else?’ asked Denser.

  The Unknown cocked his head. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It’s me you’re talking to.’

  ‘Arlen’s a long way round from Xetesk and the Balans,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Just what I was worrying about,’ said The Unknown. ‘Here’s what I propose. Denser, you get to Xetesk as fast as you can. ShadowWings would be best and we’ll bring your horse. Ilkar and I will head for the Balan Mountains and talk to Hirad. This could get nasty and we need his blade and his strength. Then we meet up as soon as we can in Greythorne.’

  ‘You reckon you can persuade him?’ asked Denser.

  ‘Well we’ve got more chance if you’re not there, put it that way,’ replied The Unknown. ‘He had some particularly legitimate grievances.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Denser sharply. ‘But you know Mount politics, Unknown. Gods’ sakes, how far have you got in pressuring the completion of research into safe release of the Protector army?’

  ‘The group I am funding is considerably more advanced than yours which seeks understanding of the realignment of the dimensions. Besides which, I cannot be in Xetesk for long periods. I don’t live there, unlike you. And however much Diera understands my desire to see the Protectors have some sort of choice, I am supposed to be retired. Anyway, I don’t think this is the time to debate the rights and wrongs of the Mount’s organisation,’ said The Unknown. ‘But you haven’t helped yourself, Denser. You haven’t kept him informed so he’s gone and sought his own information. All he’s heard is about your ascension to the fringes of the Circle Seven, and nothing about serious dimensional research.’

  ‘He has to be patient,’ protested Denser. ‘It’s a delicate—’

  ‘Denser, don’t try it with me!’ snapped The Unknown. ‘For one, Hirad has never had any patience and you should always have borne that in mind. For another, it’s been more than five years and nothing has happened. Those dragons saved Balaia and so far as he’s concerned, Balaia, and more particularly Xetesk, has turned its back on them. And I have to say I have a good deal of sympathy for him.’

  ‘We need him, Unknown. Dordover are a real threat to my family, I can feel it.’

  ‘I am aware of that. All I can say is, we’ll do what we can and we’ll see you in Greythorne in fourteen days or so.’

  ‘That’s a long time,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Then we’d best not hang around,’ said The Unknown. ‘Come on, eat up. It’s time we were on our separate ways.’

  Erienne sprinted through the orchard and flung the door aside, her daughter’s screams resounding in her ears. She turned right and ran down the corridor towards the Al-Drechar teaching chambers buried in the hillside.

  Lyanna was sobbing now, the sounds a torture in Erienne’s mind. Her anger flared. Through a set of double doors she all but flattened Ren’erei, who caught her by the arm, arresting her progress.

  ‘Let me go, Ren’erei,’ she hissed.

  ‘Calm down, Erienne. What’s wrong with you?’

  Erienne struggled against her grip, unable to break it.

  ‘Those bloody witches are hurting my daughter.’

  ‘Erienne, I can assure you that is the very last thing they intend.’ But her dismissal and the laughter in her voice merely sent Erienne’s blood racing yet higher.

  ‘Let me go. Right now.’

  ‘Not until you calm down.’

  Now she looked at Ren, seeing her eyes flinch involuntarily. ‘Let me go or I’ll drop you where you stand,’ she whispered. ‘I will see my daughter now.’

  Ren’erei stepped away and Erienne ran on without a second glance, following the sounds in her mind, reaching the door to the Whole Room and throwing it open.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ she demanded, but the last words almost died in her throat. Lyanna, apparently happy, was drawing on a chalk board with bright coloured chalks, the Al-Drechar clustered around her desk, staring intently at her work.

  Ephemere glanced up. ‘Erienne, you look flustered. Has something happened?’

  Erienne frowned. The wailing sobs in her head were gone, the screams a distant echo.

  ‘I heard—’ she began and took a pace forward. ‘Lyanna, are you all right?’

  Not even looking up, Lyanna nodded. ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  Erienne turned back to Ephemere who, with Aviana, was walking towards her across the bare but warm, firelit chamber, the flames dancing across the polished stone walls and ceiling.

  ‘Do you feel all right?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I—’ Erienne’s frown deepened. ‘I heard . . . in my head. Lyanna was crying and screaming. It was horrible.’

  ‘I can well imagine,’ said Aviana. ‘It’s probably memories she’s exorcising subconsciously. I’m sorry that they are affecting you. This isn’t a side effect we’d anticipated. But, as you can see, Lyanna is quite contented.’

  The two Al-Drechar continued to move toward her and Erienne felt herded back to the door.

  ‘It wasn’t a dream,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t imagining it.’

  ‘No one’s suggesting you were,’ said Ephemere, her arm out, shepherding Erienne away. ‘Perhaps you need some air.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Erienne. ‘Lyanna, do you need Mummy?’

  ‘No,’ came the bright reply.

  ‘Fine.’ She couldn’t fathom it. The cries had been of pain and fear. She had felt them and come running as she had done a hundred times before in Dordover. Yet Lyanna was completely untroubled, on the outside at least. It didn’t make sense. Exorcising memories. Perhaps. She had to think. ‘I’ll take that flight above the house, if you don’t mind,’ she said.

  Ephemere smiled. ‘Of course. An excellent idea. Clear your head. Come back when you’re done. Lyanna will be finished by then, I’m sure.’

  ‘See you later then, darling.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Lyanna continued her drawing.

  A loud, flat crack, echoing in the distance brought Lord Denebre to a slightly confused wakefulness in his chair by the roaring fire. Taking a nap in his warmly-decorated tower chamber as he always did after lunch, with the sun streaming in through the widened castle window, the old Lord shook his head, wondering whether the sound hadn’t been part of a dream. His health had never fully recovered since his town’s occupation by the Wesmen and the pain that periodically gripped his stomach was getting worse and more prolonged as the seasons went by. It was an occupation that had claimed the life of Genere, his wife of forty-five years, and the pain in his stomach was eclipsed by that still in his heart.

  Lord Denebre levered himself from his chair and walked slowly over to the tower window which overlooked the castle courtyard and across into his beloved town, from which every scar of Wesmen invasion had been scrubbed. It was a warm late afternoon, though there were clouds sweeping up from the south that promised rain.

  Looking down over the beautiful lakeside town, Denebre saw that the noise hadn’t been a dream. Everywhere, people had stopped to look. Though he was old, Denebre’s eyes retained all their sharpness. He could see his townsfolk point or shrug, shake their heads and continue on their way. The market was picking up again after the midday meal, the hawkers’ cries floated above the hubbub, men and women had turned out of the handful of inns and traffic moved sedately down the cobbled, impeccably clean streets.

  Lord Denebre didn’t have a vast fortune but what he could spare,
he set to keeping the place of his birth as he remembered it as a child. His people respected and protected the town and those who travelled in and sought to take advantage of what they saw as a soft underbelly soon discovered a hard edge to the Lord’s governance. He wouldn’t have gibbets on display in the town, but on the approaches they occasionally swung with the corpse of robber or thief. In his naïveté, he had thought a couple of examples were all that it would take but over the years he had never ceased to be amazed at the arrogance and stupidity of criminals.

  Mainly, though, his life had been a joy and his sons and daughters had pledged to keep the idyll when he was gone. That had made it all the harder when the Wesmen had come, threatening the destruction and death of all he held dear.

  Gone now, of course. Back across the Blackthornes. He doubted they would ever invade again. And certainly not before he was long entombed. Denebre smiled to himself and took a deep breath at the window. A second crack shattered the calm of the day, bringing silence to the market. It was an unearthly sound, reverberating through the ground and sending a tiny shudder through the castle walls.

  Denebre’s face creased into a frown and he squinted out, shading his eyes with a shaking, mottled hand and peering away towards the low hills that bordered the small lake’s southern shores where he had fished as a boy.

  A black scar ran down the face of the grass- and bracken-covered slope. Denebre had not recalled it being there before . . . perhaps a fire during the hot, dry summer. He dismissed the notion; it was not something he would have missed.

  His heart skipped a beat and raced. The scar was moving. Outwards and down, swallowing more of the lush green and belching a cloud of dust into the sky.

  ‘No, no,’ he whispered, breath suddenly ragged. Two more cracks assaulted the ears, two more fractures appeared, land falling into the instant chasms, the hideous brown-black lines rushing down the hillside accompanied by a low, dread rumbling.

  The vibration through the castle increased. In the marketplace, voices were raised in anxiety and incomprehension. Stalls were rattling, a stack of oranges spilled and bounced onto the street as stallholders rushed to make their goods secure, first instincts for preservation of business, not self.