The ancient elf took one more draw on the pipe and set it down on its stand, where it would be refilled and lit for Myriell in a few moments. She opened her eyes, not having remembered exactly when she closed them and saw two Guild elves standing to her left, waiting. With a pang of sorrow, she realised she couldn't remember their names and could only nod to indicate it was time.
The young elf males eased her chair back and with one to each arm, helped her to her feet. With agonised slowness, she dragged one foot in front of the other, determined not to let them carry her as they already had Aviana on three occasions. It was stupid, she knew, but sometimes the petty competitiveness was all that kept her going.
One of the elves opened the door to the makeshift bedroom and they moved into the gentle lantern light. To the left, the curtained window was open a crack on to a sheltered corner and though the wind buffeted the island, only a fresh breeze wafted into the room. Soon it would be light but the curtains would remain closed. It was better for concentration that way.
Lyanna lay on her back on the bed they'd brought in for her. She hadn't opened her eyes for six days now, subsiding not long after Erienne went to find Denser and The Raven. Her favourite doll and a glass of water lay on a table at her bedside, symbols of hope and belief that she would come through her Night. But they'd changed the untouched water time and again and the doll was gathering dust.
The elves helped Ephemere to the bed and she sat on its edge, leaning forward to smooth Lyanna's hair. Her face was cool and dry at the moment but another of the convulsions, when her whole body was wracked with spasms, tormented by phantoms the Al-Drechar could do nothing to diminish, would not be far away.
The Guild elves were tireless. Bathing her daily, changing soiled sheets, feeding her soup through her unconsciousness, encouraging her swallow reflex by stroking her neck.
'Poor child,' whispered Ephemere. She kissed Lyanna's forehead and indicated she wanted to move.
She was helped to a two-seater sofa and sat beside Myriell, indicating the elves could withdraw. She heard the soft click as the door closed, steeled herself for a moment and uttered a prayer that she would survive to feel the touch of Aviana's mind when her sister came to relieve her. For now, it was she who would relieve Myriell. She tuned herself to the mana spectrum and faced the tempest.
As she dived towards Lyanna's mind and the shield that Myriell maintained around it, the gales outside became as puffs of air on her cheek in comparison. It made the rain and thunder seem like distant, comforting echoes and it made the power of the lightning like the flicker of a single, guttering candle.
Ephemere imagined her face stretched taut by the force of the mana storm, her hair straight behind her and tears forced from her eyes. Directionless but focused, the streams entwined and whipped by, like an endless, white-striated tunnel of deep dark brown, shot through with flashes of yellow, orange, green and black-tinged blue, with Ephemere falling towards its core.
But she wasn't entirely helpless. The tunnel had a light, dim but pulsing. Myriell's mind. Ephemere fought to reach it, pushing a bulb of protective mana in front of her, deflecting the roaring, howling Night Child magic from destroying her as she went.
She craved the warmth of contact and it drove her on until she found it, melding seamlessly with her sister and feeling the joy of touch reciprocated. Ephemere could sense the exhaustion in Myriell but, stronger than that, the determination not to fail Lyanna. She moved her consciousness to take some of the strain from Myriell, breathing hard as the mind shield placed around Lyanna bucked and threatened to tear itself apart. She imposed her will, driving energy into the mana shape until it stabilised. Only then did she turn any attention to her sister.
'I am here, Myra,' she said.
'I thought you'd never come,' answered Myriell.
'Go and sleep now.'
'Be careful, Ephy. It isn't getting any easier.'
'I know, Myra,' said Ephemere. 'I know.'
'I love you, Ephy,' said Myriell as she began to disengage.
'Always,' said Ephemere.
And Myriell was gone and the isolation clamped down on Ephemere, sending her heart into palpitations and leaving her momentarily short of breath. Beneath the delicate mind shield, Lyanna cried out in pain, her thoughts confused and scared.
For all that Ephemere felt alone, for Lyanna it was far, far worse. Such a small child and now separated not just from her mother, but from her senses too, living in a pitch black world of night where uncontained mana battered ceaselessly at her fragile mind.
Lyanna's mind was like a magnet, dragging in magical essence in enormous quantities but quite unable to mould it or understand what it was she unleashed. While she lay in her Night, her mind experimented, fought to control what it craved and threw out random mana shapes with staggering power because that control was denied it. For her to survive, she would have to learn.
For Ephemere and all the Al-Drechar, their only focus was to defend her from that which she couldn't yet control or manipulate. Collapsing shapes posed a great threat as they unravelled and they had to be first deflected from where they might wreak havoc, and then given an outlet. It meant suffering blow after blow of half-formed magic, each one chipping away at the strength of their minds. Any shape fully formed had to be allowed free rein despite the resultant devastation in Balaia and now, Ornouth. But it had to be endured. For the succession of the One, it had to be endured.
Ephemere cried. It happened with the beginning of every shift. She felt Lyanna's moans as they modulated through the mana, the only human emotion in the elemental tumult she created. She couldn't respond, couldn't put her arms around an entity that was not there to embrace and wasn't there to be comforted.
All she could do was deflect the dangerous magical energy that Lyanna provoked. And with every slamming of a bolt against her shield, she weakened, but with every breath she took, her resolve hardened.
But none of it was why she cried.
She knew she had to suffer whatever the Night Child threw at her but her tears were because she didn't know if Erienne would return in time.
And if she didn't, the world was already dead and all her pain would have been wasted.
Erienne was momentarily confused, genuinely refusing to believe her eyes. Though Selik had intimated he was assisted by mages, never in her worst nightmare had she contemplated being before the man who had walked through her cabin door. She shook her head, shuddering at what it all meant. This was no rogue Dordovan mage, this was the High Secretary of the College. A man steeped in respect and the ethics of her College. A man she had known all her life and had thought she understood and could trust.
'Erienne, please don't judge me too quickly.'
Berian's words made her feel sick. She was glad she was sitting down or she'd have fallen. Emotions and thoughts crowded her mind. She had no idea how to react or what to say. All she knew was that the revulsion she felt at Berian's presence, and the magnitude of the betrayal that presence represented, was overwhelming. She swayed and turned her head away.
'Don't talk to me,' she rasped, tasting bile in her mouth. 'Don't even look at me. You revolt me.'
'Please, Erienne,' said Berian. 'We had to find you. We worry for you and Lyanna.'
'How dare you lie to me!' Erienne's eyes blazed, her rage growing. 'You're standing next to the murderer of my children. Dordovan children. How could you!'
Berian gave Selik a sideways glance. 'But they knew where to find you again,' he said gently. 'And we would see you come to no further harm.'
'Liar!' Erienne flew across the cabin, landing one punch on Berian's face before Selik dragged her away and threw her back on the bed.
'Calm yourself,' he drawled.
'Calm?' she screamed. 'Great Gods burning, I've delivered myself and my child to hell.' She jabbed a finger at Berian. 'And you, you bastard betrayer. You're dead. I swear it. You've betrayed everything and joined with Witch Hunters to find your own and kill them.'
She slumped, her head dropping to her chest, her rage extinguished. Helplessness swept through her and tears fell down her cheeks. Everything she'd believed in was in ashes at her feet.
'How could you?' she whispered.
'Because your daughter is a danger to Balaia,' said Berian, all hint of gentleness gone from his voice. 'And she is a herald of doom for Dordover. Did you really think we'd stand by and let you bring her to the One uncontested? She must be controlled by Dordover to ensure our College survives. It is you who are the betrayer, Erienne Malanvai. I would save my College. You would see it fall.'
Erienne shook her head. 'No,' she managed through her weeping. 'No, you don't understand.'
'Yes, Erienne, I do,' said Berian. 'I understand only too well.'
She heard footsteps receding and her door close and lock.
Erienne had never considered the circumstances of her death until now. Never wondered if she'd know it was imminent, what she might say, how she might react, how she might feel. But here it was, only worse. Because she wasn't dying alone. She was sealing the fate of her daughter at the same time.
She felt detached, looking in from afar. Her life had taken on dual qualities of utter certainty and dreamlike unreality. There were many things she knew. Selik wouldn't touch her until they reached Herendeneth. The Raven, if they survived, would be chasing her. She'd been betrayed by Dordover. And Berian, of all mages, was travelling with her, helping to organise her death. But her grasp of time seemed vague. She felt the ship move, knew they were in the channel heading down towards the Bay of Arlen, but somehow couldn't connect it with her reality. None of it should be happening and there were parts of her that still believed that she would come to and find Denser watching over her.
She had tried to cast, of course. It was one way to reconnect herself with everything she knew. But though her faculties were recovering, she hadn't the stamina to attempt complex shapes and, even if she could, a Dordovan spell shield covered her cabin, leaving her completely cut off.
She poured a goblet of water, walked to the back of her cabin and looked out of the small window. Through the rain, she could see the red smudge in the skies above Arlen, indicating the fires that still raged there. She held on to the window ledge as the ship rolled, water spilling over her hand. The wind was gusting very strong and though making headway, the Ocean Elm was surely under limited sail. She wouldn't know. Selik wouldn't let her out on deck.
She sat on the bed, draining the goblet and placing it on her small table. Another roll and it fell to the floor, clinking dully on the timbers. She left it there. Trying to ignore the conditions outside, the rain that drilled into the glass of the window and the wind that washed over them, howling as it came, Erienne set her mind to what, if anything, she could do.
It wasn't a long list. The most obvious route was magic but she had only just begun to probe the shield placed around her. It was strong, probably the work of three Dordovan betrayers and she had no doubt that it was being monitored closely for signs she was testing its structure. If she found weakness, she'd have to be ready to exploit it immediately.
On the physical plane, there were two escape routes, neither viable. The door to her cabin was kept locked and two guards stood outside it. She hadn't even considered attacking them despite the fact that they stood inside the spell shield. After all, where would it get her?
The window had been nailed shut and, even if she could force it, the drop to the water would result only in her death from drowning.
Yet suicide was an option she couldn't ignore. If she died, the Ocean Elm's crew would no longer have the incentive to complete their journey. But it would only buy the Al-Drechar a little time. With the defences around Herendeneth in terminal decline, the location of the island wouldn't stay hidden for ever - if indeed it still was - and, despite the treacherous waters, Lyanna would be found eventually.
The ship lurched again and shuddered as it plunged into a wave. She recognised the sideways movement and knew they were approaching the mouth of the Arl. She'd learned enough to understand that the tidal forces in the bay made passage uncomfortable as high or low water approached and, fanned by gale force winds, the waves would be very difficult. She could only imagine what the open sea would be like.
Inside she felt like collapsing. Like giving up her will and letting what was to come wash over her. But in her heart beat belief. Belief that Lyanna, her beautiful girl, must live and that somehow she would be helped, rescued.
She clung to that belief because it was all she had. It would take them seven days at least to reach Herendeneth and so she put herself in someone else's hands. Not Dordover's, not her husband's but something potentially more powerful than all the forces ranged against her. And she knew that the whole would never give up while one of them had the strength to help.
The Raven.
Chapter 28.
It had begun days ago but no one had taken any notice, not really. Despite the floods, there had been no one killed, indeed not many injuries at all. They had heard the stories from the undefended farmsteads, the coastal towns and the lakeside villages as refugees had poured in. But here in Korina, they had always thought themselves impervious to real damage. Now the refugees were flooding out, not in.
Diera ran from her room, the screaming Jonas clutched to her chest as her window blew inwards, the force of the blast shaking the whole inn to its foundations. And this was worse than a mere hurricane. The force of the wind had slammed the shutters so hard, they'd snapped in, tearing frame and glass from the sturdy brick walls as they came.
Hurrying down the stairs, she came upon a scene of panic in the bar as The Rookery's drinkers tried to escape the roaring tempest scouring the market square. Half of the front of the inn had been torn away, books and papers flashed through the air, tables slid and tipped, the fire blew in all directions showering hot embers and over the ringing sound of the smashing of glass, the cries of terror and pain rose like spectres.
'The cellar, the cellar!' someone was bawling in her ear while pulling at her arm. She turned. It was Tomas, his face white, forehead cut and blood pouring into one eye. He pointed to one of the doors behind the bar, then pushed past her and out into the wreckage of his inn, kneeling by a man whose legs had been crushed by a falling beam. She watched, mute, as Tomas spoke words to the trapped man, nodded and cut his thigh deeply above the artery, holding him as his life blood flowed on to the floor and he died.
Screams filtered in from the outside. People ran past, heading west, glancing over their shoulders and running harder. A great roaring filled the air, a deafening painful sound that beat at the ears. Diera pushed Jonas' head into her chest and covered his exposed ear with her free hand.
'Tomas!' she screamed. 'Tomas!'
The roaring took on a deeper intensity. A cart flew by the torn front of the inn and smashed into a wall nearby, timbers and springs scattering. The remaining people inside ducked again, clinging on to whatever they could. Tomas was shouting at them but they couldn't hear him.
He crawled, hand over hand, back to the bar, grabbed her and pushed her to the cellar door. He wrenched it open and she stumbled down the lantern-lit stairs, hearing the door shudder shut behind them.
In the sudden relative quiet, she could hear her own breathing, her baby's whimpers and Tomas' cursing. Below them, the space was crammed with people. She saw Maris and Rhob hugging each other, and many others she only dimly recognised, their fear written in their expressions, their limbs quivering with exertion, and those that could still stand tending those that could not.
Above them, a terrible rending sound was followed by a thunderous impact that shivered beams and shook dust into the air in clouds.
'It's the inn,' gasped Tomas. 'Gone. Gone.'
Diera saw agony in his slim, blood-smeared face.
'What can we do?' she asked.
He turned to her and put a hand on her cheek, stroking gently with his fingers.
'Pray,' he said. 'Pray this cellar roof holds. Pray the floods don't reach here. Pray you see tomorrow's sun and that your husband finds a way to end all of this before we are all killed.'
Diera looked at him. She understood it was all down to magic. The word had spread through the city days ago. One part of her wanted to demand what one man could possibly do. But another, deeper and more spiritual part knew they all had to believe in something.
And Tomas chose to believe in Sol.
Diera rocked her crying child against her chest, finding comfort in sharing the same belief. After all, he'd never let Balaia down yet.
The Calaian Sun struggled to make real headway. The winds that had taken the Ocean Elm out of sight had backed and now blew straight up the Arl to the lake.
With the night full and dark and the destroyed town behind them, The Raven, in dry clothes provided by the crew, had time to take stock while Jevin, their reluctant skipper, deployed as much sail as he dared and tried to read the difficult conditions. He had already reported the likelihood of having to short tack the length of the river and warned The Raven that if the Elm had been lucky, they would enter open water as much as half a day behind.
While Darrick organised food and drink from the galley, Hirad, Ilkar and Denser stood between the narrow twin beds on which lay The Unknown and Thraun. Hirad felt helpless. He replayed over and over what had happened, searching for any ways he could have helped. He found none.
And so the rock of The Raven lay unconscious under a WarmHeal, alive but badly damaged. Hirad wiped the corners of his eyes with his right thumb and forefinger, and felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.
'It wasn't your fault,' said Ilkar. 'I cast the ForceCone.'
Hirad looked at the elf. 'It's not that. There's no blame to anyone. I just thought that there would be more you could do.'
'If Erienne, were here, we could. She's a BodyCast master.'
'But I thought . . .' Hirad gestured uselessly.
'WarmHeal can only do so much. Knitting tissue, promoting muscle growth and sealing fractures. He needs more than that. Much more,' said Ilkar.
'So what's the situation?' Hirad hadn't even wanted to ask the question, as if not knowing would make things better.
'The axe has smashed his hip and cracked his pelvis,' said Denser. 'And that's apart from the mess it's made of his tendons, muscle, skin . . . We were able to fuse the pelvis and that will knit. But the hip is crushed and there are shards of bone everywhere. We aren't physicians, Hirad, and we don't have the skill to reforge in the way a BodyCast can.'
Hirad shook his head, grasping for a conclusion. Both mages were looking studiously away from him.
'So, will he walk?'
Ilkar nodded. 'After a fashion. The joint will stiffen and he'll be in constant pain. He'll limp heavily but he'll walk.' The elf shrugged.
'Oh Gods,' said Hirad, the ramifications obvious. 'He won't be able to fight.'
'With a two-handed sword, no,' said Ilkar. 'He won't have the balance or the strength in that leg. But he'll get by with a long sword if someone shadows his left side.'
'He's lucky to be alive at all,' added Denser. 'He's lost a massive amount of blood.'
Hirad looked down at the big man. The mages would keep him asleep on the rolling ship for days, perhaps the whole voyage. And when he awoke, it would be as a cripple, the power and grace that were his trademark gone forever. Except there still had to be something that could be done. Hirad wasn't about to give it up.
'Could Erienne help him?' he asked.
'If she got to him before the muscle grew back around the joint and the bones fused completely, yes,' said Denser. 'But so what?'
'How long before it's too late?'