Hirad felt The Unknown’s body relax. It was enough for him to turn and look at Ilkar, who was still seated. The expression on the elf’s face, and the desperation in his eyes, told of the depth of his belief in what he had said.
‘But aren’t you being overdramatic?’ he asked. ‘What do you mean, “night”?’
‘No, Hirad, I’m not. Unless you count Thornewood as overdramatic. And that, as we know, is far from being a one-off storm. Look, when a mage tries to learn to accept the flow of mana, there is a period, usually short, of darkness for the mage. Where the senses are uncontrolled, and the mind turns inwards while the mana batters inside the head. It’s like being in a gale in the pitch black and that’s why it’s come to be called “Night”. Mages training in the Colleges have the ManaBowl around them to direct and control the otherwise overpowering flow of mana. Lyanna only has the Al-Drechar and they clearly aren’t up to shielding her from her Awakening or her from us. Her Night could last a long time. And again, that’s just what I believe but I’m better placed than you to make a judgement.’
‘And you think it would be better if she died?’
‘Dammit, Unknown, no!’ Ilkar pushed himself to a standing position. ‘It may come to that but I certainly will have no hand in it.’
‘Denser hears nothing of this,’ warned The Unknown.
Ilkar shook his head. ‘If he doesn’t already know it inside, I’d be very surprised. He is a mage and no fool. He knows what he and Erienne wanted to create and so far as I’m concerned, he has rather unfortunately succeeded.’
‘Then we’d best get to him, hadn’t we? Sounds like he might be needing our help.’
The three old friends mounted up and rode for Greythorne, their silence as angry and dark as the sky above them.
Selik listened to the furious voices inside the inn for a few moments before slapping open the doors and striding inside, his men crowding behind him but for one who stayed by the horses. Three men stood against the bar opposite, looking out over a crowd of approaching fifty people who sat on chair or table, or leant against walls and beams. The inn was lantern-lit and low-ceilinged. Pipe smoke lay thick across their heads in the poor ventilation, its sweet odour obscuring that of ale and wine.
His loud entrance having had the desired effect of silencing the crowd and having every head turn in his direction, Selik walked calmly to the bar, coming to stand between the three men. He kept the man he knew had to be Evansor on his right and the two older farmers on his left. The mage was young and slender, his body not used to hard physical work, and his clothing was of a cloth too fine-woven to be of any use in the fields.
Selik took in the gathering with a lazy sweep of his head. Some were fearful, others burned too deeply with anger to worry about what he represented, while most just looked on, waiting for him to announce himself. Perfect. He hushed the objection of one of the older farmers with a raising of his left forefinger and spoke.
‘I am Selik and some of you may have heard of me and the work I and my associates undertake on your behalf.’ He indicated his men who had spread themselves around the inn. ‘I have seen the wreckage in your fields. And I have heard of the extra mouths you have to feed. I feel for you all.’
Beside him, the mage scoffed quietly. Selik ignored him for the moment. He threw back his hood and waited for the sounds of revulsion and sympathy.
‘You can see what magic has done to me, and now you experience its malignancy for yourselves.’ He held up a hand as voices became audible. ‘I know you don’t understand but your mage does, don’t you Evansor?’ He sensed the mage flinch as his name was mentioned. ‘Because this was no natural wind, was it? Magic did this to your village.’ Selik affected a look of surprise. ‘Oh, did he neglect to tell you? Well, perhaps he might choose to do so now?’
Selik turned to face Evansor and felt the gathering do the same. This was easier than he expected. Evansor’s pale face pinched into a half-smile and he spread his hands.
‘My friends, the Black Wings have always hated magic. Don’t let him sway you. We have more important matters to discuss. Like how we are to survive the winter if the weather does not improve.’
He’d mollified a few but Selik wasn’t even nearly done. ‘You have dodged answering the question. A simple yes or no will do. Was the wind that destroyed the livelihood of this village natural or not?’ Selik let his voice soften. ‘Come, Evansor, you’re among friends. You said so yourself. Answer the question.’
Evansor looked around at the gathering, Selik watching him squirm. The net was tightening beautifully. The silence grew and with every heartbeat, suspicion grew with it.
‘I-I tasted magic on the wind,’ he said. ‘But, but . . .’
‘But you didn’t think these people worthy of knowing? That the filth your kind creates has visited ruin on them all?’ He swung round to face the crowd whose expressions ranged from the confused to the red-faced furious. He could see his men whispering in certain ears, guiding thoughts, suggesting actions. ‘And how do you feel about that, eh?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said one voice. The query was taken up by others.
‘What’s there not to understand?’ said Selik. ‘The wind that wrecked your crops was fuelled by magic, not by an act of the Gods. And this “friend” of yours didn’t want you to know that. Do you think Orytte’s flood was a natural disaster? Or Denebre? Or any of a dozen others I could mention. Magic is tearing our country apart and yet you sit and ask him what to do. You’ve going to starve and he and his kind are the cause of it all.’ He heard the crowd stirring and muttering. Close, so very close. ‘Would you ask the devil the way out of hell?’
Selik heard a voice say ‘no’ and there was a sudden rise in the volume of noise, angry voices shouting out for answers and only quietened by one of the older farmers to his left.
‘He’s taking this too far,’ the man said, half-pleading. ‘Marching in here, spreading his poison. Evansor is our friend.’
‘ “Friend”?’ Selik spread his hands theatrically. ‘And who needs the sort of friend that won’t tell you the truth when it suits him? Who’s happy to take your money to keep the rats from your barns and the sores from your hands but who is only loyal to his cursed College? Because believe me, he isn’t loyal to you. Any of you. Don’t be fooled like I was. Don’t let my face be your face.’ Selik let his voice rise in strength. He had them, he was sure of it. ‘This travesty of a man is the problem, not the answer. And problems have to be stamped out!’
He smacked a fist into his palm and glared at Evansor, hearing the clamour of the crowd grow. The mage was badly frightened but Selik knew he would speak and condemn himself.
‘Please, my friends,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard. ‘I’m not your enemy, I can help you.’
‘Yes, by getting out!’ came a voice. It was a Black Wing voice but nobody cared. The crowd was shouting.
‘Out! Out! Out!’
‘Please!’ Evansor’s eyes were desperate, flitting around the room.
Selik grabbed the collar of his shirt.
‘Don’t touch me, Black Wing, or I’ll—’
‘What?’ And Selik’s voice stilled them. ‘Cut me down like your kind have the crops of these good people? Which spell will it be? Fire or ice?’
Selik dragged him closer, then shoved him into the crowd. The fist of a Black Wing came out of nowhere and slammed into his cheek, snapping his head back and sending him stumbling. The crowd was roaring now, but none would move forward. Evansor, though, was losing control. Selik smiled as he saw the mage’s eyes narrow in anger then unfocus as he prepared.
‘He’s going to cast!’ shouted a voice. A Black Wing voice.
Selik gestured at two of his men. They rushed in. Evansor let the spell go. It was a ForceCone, hard enough to fling the men back, where they clattered into those behind them.
‘Get back. I mean you no harm!’ shouted Evansor. ‘Please.’
A bottle came flying across the
bar, missing the mage by a fraction.
‘He’s broken my arm!’ moaned a man. And the surge was triggered.
Selik stepped smartly aside as they came, leaving his foot out to trip one man who fell into those in front, pushing them on. They’d surely only meant to grab him, take him to the village borders and sling him out but Selik’s men were in the rush and after the first punch was thrown, Evansor didn’t stand a chance.
With the old farmers desperately trying to pull their people away, blow after blow rained down on the helpless mage, whose shouts and begging cries were swallowed up in the pack howl and the desire to mete out punishment on the blameless.
Selik saw a chair leg flash across Evansor’s face, splitting his nose; he saw boots stamping and kicking his body and he saw a knife flash in the lantern light and plunge into his heart. They were still punching him long after he had died.
The Black Wing commander gathered his men to him while the hatred dissipated as quickly as it had grown. Village men started to back off, stunned at what they had done. Voices began to rise, expressing shock, and in the background a woman was crying.
Selik smiled and walked to the door of the inn and turned.
‘The path of the righteous is ever drenched in the blood of the evil,’ he announced into a gathering that was only too willing to hear justification for the murder it had collectively committed. ‘This is a great day for Balaia. Magic has wreaked its havoc on our country for too long. It’s time we sought recompense. Tell everyone you meet. We shall be second to mages no more.’
He swept from the inn, a swell in his heart and his anger assuaged. Next, the bitch.
Lyanna didn’t understand it, only that it hurt and she wanted the hurt to stop. They had promised her peace from the nightmares that made her wake so frightened. And they had promised that they could calm the wind that blew inside her head.
But they couldn’t.
Well, they did at first, but now Mummy was away looking for Daddy and they seemed to grow older. They walked slower and their eyes were all dark, inside and out. And that made them cross so much.
So the nightmares had come back. And the wind roared in her head and made it hurt and sometimes she felt like it was dark although it was day. They always helped her when that started to happen. She wished Mummy was here to cuddle her and lie with her when she cried.
Lyanna looked up into the blue sky through the trees in the courtyard orchard. The leaves on the branches blew patterns across her eyes, like little sprites waving hello. She smiled. Perhaps the sprites would talk to her. Ephy and the others never seemed to find the time. Too busy with that smelly pipe.
For a moment, the wind stopped inside her. It was a relief. She thought hard and the branches of the nearest trees moved towards her, bringing the sprites to where she could talk to them.
This would be a fun game.
Cleress dragged deeply on the pipe, feeling the inhalation throughout her wracked and tired body. The mixed weeds calmed her muscles and anaesthetised the arthritis twisting her left knee into a gnarled, swollen parody of a joint.
Beside her at the table, Myriell slumped in her chair, the exhaustion plain on her face. She could sleep soon, much as Aviana did now. Only Ephemere watched over the child who was destroying them all so fast.
They had disastrously miscalculated her power, or rather, the power they would have to expend in shielding such an unbalanced Awakening. And the girl had such energy outside of magic too. She was a lovely child but was becoming more demanding every day. Her moods swung wildly between joy and wonder; and fear and darkness.
Cleress had been at pains to remind them all that, despite the ravaging mana surging barely checked through Lyanna’s head due to the Dordovans’ clumsy Awakening, she was still just a small child. And that brought its own rash of idiosyncrasies, demands and responsibilities. With Erienne gone, however temporarily, all four of them had to assume the role of understanding grandmother. And though Lyanna undoubtedly trusted them, while she didn’t trust any Guild elves now Ren’erei had gone, they had not practised that particular quality of care for decades.
So there were mistakes, the worst of which was to assume Lyanna could always amuse herself when at play. They kept a watching brief on her mind and the flow of the mana around her, yet that wasn’t really the point, and Cleress knew it. But they had to rest and the temptation to do so at any time they weren’t actively teaching or shielding was overwhelming.
Cleress took another long draw on the pipe, ensured it stayed lit and passed it to Myriell, having to place the stem between her sister’s lips before she acknowledged it was there.
‘What time is it?’ she mumbled before inhaling.
‘Too early to be relying on the Lemiir in that pipe, Myra. The sun is riding down but night-time is way away.’
‘Or maybe not so for the child.’
‘No,’ agreed Cleress.
Myriell’s brief assessment nagged at all their shattered minds. They supported each other, gave each other their strength and tended their bodies and minds as carefully as they could. But the question remained. Would Lyanna learn even a modicum of self-control before their capacity to teach, control and protect her was finally gone?
Cleress feared the worst.
Cleress, orchard, now. Ephy’s voice rang through her head, an alarm that sent her heart racing.
‘Trouble, Myra. Stay here. I’ll call you if we need you.’
‘Try not to,’ muttered Myriell.
Cleress dragged herself to her feet and hobbled towards the orchard, the effects of the Lemiir not strong enough to fully dampen the pain that shot up her leg and through her back every time she put pressure on the arthritic knee.
Out of the dining room and through the ballroom she moved, worry hurrying her step, Ephemere’s anxiety dusting across her mind.
Ephy was standing at the doors to the orchard, staring out, one hand on the frame to brace herself. When Cleress joined her, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
In the centre of the orchard sat Lyanna in her favourite blue dress, cross-legged. Her arms were outstretched before her and her face turned up, a beatific smile across her features. And all around her, the trees moved at her bidding. Whole branches turned down towards her, their leaves rippling, flowers opening, embryonic fruits shifting in colour.
Like a dance, choreographed by Lyanna, eight or nine trees moved to her order, their boughs swaying, crowns dipping and twisting. But it was the leaves that held Cleress rapt. Their movement, like a pulsing wind over the top of a corn field, sent them shimmering in surely impossible directions. Their synchronicity was beguiling, their dark green top surfaces and silver undersides blinking like ten thousand eyes as they twisted gracefully on their slender stalks. And the noise they made was like voices, whispering and laughing, joyful and so real.
Beneath them all sat Lyanna, still but for her lips, which moved soundlessly as if . . .
‘She’s talking to them,’ breathed Cleress.
‘Yes,’ agreed Ephemere. ‘Or trying to. A child’s imagination has no boundaries and Lyanna’s has the power to animate what she dreams. The trouble is, she’s flaring. She’ll have a headache when she’s done.’
‘And Balaia will have another gale,’ said Cleress. She attuned her eyes to the mana spectrum and saw what Ephemere meant. Though the mana shape Lyanna used unconsciously to manipulate the trees was a stunning spiders’ web formation, all around it dark brown spears of mana tore away, creating eddies and vortices which gathered in size and strength as they whipped away beyond vision - beacons for those who searched for her and would do her harm.
She had no idea what she created but the after-effects were felt all over Balaia, where her birthplace was and where the core of her mana strength would always reside. Cleress could only imagine the problems her flares were causing, but knew the dissipation of focused yet unfettered mana energy of this magnitude typically manifested itself as terrifying elemental forces.
Tinjata, for all his senile meanderings those thousands of years ago, had been right about one thing. An awakened Child of the One could lay waste to Balaia in less than half a year. It was up to the surviving Al-Drechar to stop that by keeping her from the worst excesses of herself until she was old enough to understand the control she had to master. If she couldn’t, the Al-Drechar would be left with one alternative and its mere contemplation was hideous.
Not for the first time, Cleress cursed the Dordovans for disturbing something in which they should never have meddled.
‘What do you want me to do, Ephy?’
‘Go in and speak to her. Hear how she describes it. I’ll cap the flaring and monitor the mana shape.’
Cleress nodded and entered the orchard. It had an eerie quality to it, though the late afternoon sun cast a warm yellow light. The birds weren’t singing and the creak of boughs and branches under Lyanna’s control was alien in the windless air.
Close to, Cleress could see Lyanna’s eyes darting from leaf to leaf, her mouth moving, her smile alternately thinning and broadening as if the answers she thought she received to her questions pleased her. Her outstretched arms trembled with the effort of maintaining the mana shape and a frown creased her brow. She was tiring.
Cleress knelt by her and smoothed a loose hair from her forehead.
‘Lyanna, can you hear me?’ she asked, her voice soft despite the effects of the Lemiir.
‘I’ve got my friends here, look, Clerry,’ replied Lyanna, not turning from her work, her voice distant with effort.
Cleress looked and had to smile at what kept Lyanna spellbound. From an arc in front of her, branches flowed in, almost touching her face, caressing the arm in front of her and moving over and floating across each other, like the tentacles of a benign sea creature, the stiffness of the bark and grain gone, replaced by a flesh-like suppleness.
The Raven Collection Page 124
