'Yes!' Dystran clapped his hands together. 'Correct answer. Verify away. Don't sleep until you have the proof you need and don't fear being wrong. I need the truth more than I need lies dressed up as good news.'
Dystran called his advisers to him and strode from the room.
'Get me whoever it is that's in charge on Herendeneth. I need to know why the hell the Al-Drechar haven't revealed there was another practitioner. And get me Chandyr and Myx from whatever front they're defending. The march on Julatsa might have to be postponed.
'Oh, and get me an update on our dimensional experiments based on the information those two women supplied us. Gods, there's so much to do.'
He turned a corner and took a spiral staircase, going up two steps at a time.
'Ranyl,' he said to himself. 'You'll have to postpone dying. I need you more than the darkness does.'
In Dordover, the night's rest was over for every mage capable of reading the signs in the spectrum. Vuldaroq had received powerful and urgent Communion from Lystern shortly after midnight. The news had sent him surging from his bed, his overweight body sweating as he ran, wiping a cloth at his puffy red face.
Even in his dreams he had felt the unease that had whispered through the mana spectrum and on hearing the report from his delegation and his experts, knew his feelings were grounded in truth.
'Be absolutely sure,' he instructed the research team. 'But be quick about it. I want to know how this is possible. And at first light, I want to see the Lystern delegation. In the meantime, I want every spare man hunting The Raven. I think it's safe to assume, as our delegation suspects, that Erienne carries the One, if indeed we are facing that power again. I want her here, where she belongs, as a child of this college.'
He sat back in his chair. 'Dear Gods falling, The Raven. Praise the day when they stop making my life so bloody difficult.' He sighed and looked around him. 'Come on, we've got work to do.'
Chapter 7.
In contrast to the dawn weather, the mood was distinctly cool in the Al-Drechar's reception room on Herendeneth. Myriell joined Cleress as usual in their preferred location by the kitchen, their elven helpers shadowing every uncertain, arthritic step. No one would dare disturb their sleep but a trio of tired-looking Xeteskian mages was waiting for them as they awoke. She recognised them all; Nyam, Leryn and Krystaj.
'To what do we owe this pleasure?' asked Myriell, having spent an inordinate amount of time having her cushions and blankets precisely arranged by her Guild elf attendant, Nerane.
She could feel their irritation growing but ignored it and the increasingly frequent 'tuts' coming from Cleress. But then Cleress had spent so much more time defending Erienne's mind of late, including her rather rash use of a creation she wasn't quite ready to use. Understandably, she was tired.
Myriell, on the other hand, had enjoyed her best night's rest for ages and felt energetic enough to indulge in mischief-making.
'You have not been straight with us,' said Leryn. He was their leader and a fool. All slimy smiles and political intent.
'I think you'll find we have answered all your questions to the best of our ability,' said Myriell evenly.
'You did not tell us there was another practitioner of the One.'
'You didn't ask.'
'So there is.' Krystaj this time, a bored and ineffectual student. A poor mage.
'That is your assumption,' said Cleress, finally connecting with Myriell's train of thought.
'And we wouldn't dream of questioning the assumptions of Xetesk,' added Myriell. Looking Leryn square in the eye.
'So tell us,' said Nyam, the only smart one among them. 'Is there another practitioner?'
Myriell smiled. 'We were a widespread order at one time. There is a chance that others have survived like we have.'
'That is surely untrue,' said Nyam. 'You two are over four hundred years old and have survived this long only because you've been here and have had daily care. We have detected the One magic on Balaia. We suspect a student and you are the only teachers.'
Myriell and Cleress were silent.
'Tell us,' said Nyam. 'Is there a student with whom you have contact?'
We cannot tell them, pulsed Cleress.
They know already. All we can do is divert them.
They will guess.
This was always inevitable.
'I would remind you that we are not under your control, merely your protection, such as it is,' said Myriell. 'And we are happy to help with your researches. The state of our order is, and will remain, our own business.'
'Your evasion confirms our suspicions,' said Leryn.
'And your assumptions. Is the knowledge useful?' Cleress employed her best patronising smile.
'You will tell us the name of the practitioner,' said Leryn.
'Ah,' said Myriell, holding up a finger in admonishment and beginning to really enjoy herself. 'Definitely a mistaken assumption. No we will not, even assuming we know.'
Leryn snatched up the neck of her dress beneath the blankets, dragging her almost upright.
'You are testing my patience, Myriell. Tell us what we need to know or we will extract it.'
Myriell felt no fear and displayed nothing but calm. 'Fascinating. Don't you agree, Cleress?'
'Fascinating,' she agreed.
'We were wondering how you propose to do that,' said Myriell.
'Pain is a great loosener of tongues,' said Leryn.
Myriell nodded. 'How original.'
She gripped Leryn's wrist with her right hand, her meditation quick and sure. Erienne's chosen construct would be admirable. Short, sharp and very, very hot.
Leryn cried out in sudden pain, leaping backwards and dropping Myriell who released his wrist and settled back into her chair. Leryn looked at his blackened arm, the smell of his toasted skin in the air, the thin tendrils of smoke mesmerising.
'Do not make the mistake of thinking you can threaten us, Xeteskian,' said Myriell, all traces of humour gone from her voice and face. 'We have power you can only guess at and while our bodies may be frail, the One sustains us and guides us until our last breaths. We are in charge here and you will not demand anything of us. Now, the audience is over. Cleress and I wish to talk. Leave at once.'
Myriell signalled Nerane to rearrange her blankets. Nyam opened his mouth but Cleress stayed his words.
'We will not repeat ourselves,' she said.
Nyam looked at Leryn who nodded, his pained expression a picture of shock and humiliation. The three mages left the room in silence.
It is dangerous to stoke their anger, said Cleress, still choosing to speak mind to mind.
It is time they knew their place, countered Myriell. When we were protecting poor Lyanna we had no strength to protect ourselves. Now it is different, if only by a small degree but they will not know that. We are the Al-Drechar. I will not have them think we are helpless.
Well, you've certainly achieved that.
Myriell relaxed further back into her chair, feeling a little tired. Her arthritis was flaring badly. But they will guess soon enough and it will make them desperate. Let's not forget that friends and loved ones of The Raven are our guests here. I think we should have a quiet word with Diera.
Devun didn't have Selik's courage and belief. That fact had hit him hard as he rode through the damp chill of Understone Pass. He'd sent three of his men back to the righteous army to urge patience and begin to explain why they must seek the aid of the Wesmen, leaving a guard of six making the journey to the sworn enemy of Eastern Balaia.
None of them had travelled the Pass before. None had experienced its oppressive closeness, its deep darkness and its extraordinary majesty. To think it was only part natural. That so many had struggled and died for its construction only to unleash a conflict that had rumbled on for hundreds of years, occasionally exploding into bloody and destructive life.
It was an incredible feature that demanded respect but that wasn't why Devun and his men took so long to travel a distance which would take a galloping rider a little over four hours. He knew that it was because he was scared. That he had no idea how he would approach the Wesmen they would encounter at the western end of the pass. And so he and his men moved with exaggerated care, and stopped more and more frequently the nearer they came. Their lanterns threw shadows in front of them that made their already nervous horses unwilling to move and they needed no second bidding to halt. Though who it was that needed calming more was open to debate.
Devun lost all track of time but thought they must have travelled through the night, given the exhaustion that descended on them all. It did at least allow him to formulate some sort of plan but he couldn't shift the knowledge that Selik would have been far better equipped to face the Wesmen.
All Devun could do was adopt the sort of confident air he knew Selik would have exuded and hope that whoever stopped them failed to see through to the frightened man behind it. Assuming, they weren't simply killed out of hand.
The answers came very suddenly. They had been anticipating the end of the pass for some time. There was more movement in the air. It was less dank and every now and again, the faint smell of wood smoke added to the mix. Their pace had slowed still further and, riding abreast, all seven of them were squinting to the furthest extent of their lanterns' throw when a shout from ahead stopped them.
In moments, dozens of torches were alight ahead of them, stretching from ground level to the natural vaulted roof of the pass above. They illuminated a gated wooden barricade, strengthened with iron strips and punctuated with slits through which Devun could well imagine arrows pointed.
Immediately, he dropped his reins and raised his hands head high to signal peaceful intent, indicating his men should do the same.
'No sudden moves,' he said, breathing deep and slow while his heart pounded in his chest. Seeing the structure ahead of him, he was acutely aware of the folly of their position. Just seven men who could so easily be snuffed out. And who would miss them? Few barring those trying to hold the army together near the walls of Xetesk. How in all the hells did he expect to persuade the Wesmen into alliance?
'Tough it out,' said one of his men as if hearing his thoughts. 'Act like Selik would have done and we'll ride back heroes.'
Just what he was thinking. Carrying it out, now that was something else.
A crack appeared in the doors, and daylight flooded into the pass followed by the sweet smells of spring. Devun shielded his eyes. Three men stood silhouetted in the glare. They began walking when the gates had opened fully, revealing many more behind them. They walked with total confidence, one slightly ahead of the others who both carried unsheathed swords. Moving as slowly as he could, Devun dismounted to meet them.
He faced a shortish man, heavy set, bearded and dressed in light furs. His small eyes scowled from his face and his voice carried no warmth.
'Who are you?' he asked in heavily accented western Balaian.
'I am Devun, leader of the Black Wings. I would know your name.'
'Lord Riasu. You are far from home,' he replied, struggling for the right words.
'I need your help,' said Devun simply, trying to pick terms Riasu might know. 'I come to offer a deal to the Wesmen.'
Riasu raised his eyebrows. 'A deal? We want nothing from you.'
'You want what I can offer. But I must speak to Lord Tessaya. He is your leader still, is he not?'
Riasu shrugged. 'Yes. But I can tell him what you tell me.'
Devun shook his head. 'It must be face to face. Talk to him. Ask him. I will await your reply.'
'I will think on it.'
'Thank you,' said Devun.
Another shrug from Riasu and he turned to go.
'Lord Riasu,' said Devun, and waited until the Wesmen lord looked back at him. 'We are hungry and thirsty. Can you spare food and water?'
Riasu barked out a laugh. 'You should be dead. This is our land. Be happy you still breathe.' He paused. 'I will think on it.'
Devun watched him go, seeing the gates close on him before blowing out his cheeks and turning to his men.
'Well, what do you think?'
'I think we're still alive and that's as much as we could hope for,' said one. 'What now?'
Devun scratched at his head. 'We have no choice. We wait.'
Pheone awoke with the sun streaming through her unshuttered window in the newly built room in the south of the college of Julatsa. If she chose to look out she could see much of the college spread out before her but the last thing on her mind was enjoying the view despite the brightness of the new day.
She felt nauseated. Her head felt thick and heavy and her stomach churned like she'd eaten something bad the night before. She knew it wasn't food and a wry smile dragged briefly across her face. For the first time in her life, she was wishing sickness on herself because at least it would mean the problem wasn't infinitely more serious.
Pheone tried to relax and focus inwardly, switching into the mana spectrum. That was where the source of her nausea was, she was sure of it. For one terrifying moment, she couldn't tune in at all but then there it was before her mind's eye. The gentle flux of focused mana that was the signature of the spectrum at the core of a college.
Yet it was far from right. The flux was weak. She could see that as clear as day. There was a random edge to the overall focus and that was indicative of the failing of the Heart. She frowned. They'd been seeing the slight breakdown for a while now and that wasn't why she was feeling off. There had to be more. She followed the flux focus into the deep core of concentrated mana that flowed around the Heart. The pulsing core of the college, the centre of its power. Buried from normal sight but visible on the mana spectrum.
It was there as it had always been but displaced by its burial those few years before. Years that had seemed like an eternity. A displacement that had stopped the college in its tracks. Julatsans were no longer called to the college because the pulse was not loud enough. But those that remained had kept faith that the pulse still beat as strong. Not true. Not any more.
Pheone searched harder, probed the core and soaked up the mana streams that to a mage were like standing in a warm spring breeze. She felt comforted for a moment but it was false.
A chill shot through her body and her eyes snapped open. The Heart was losing its colour. Julatsan mana was a glorious warm yellow. Gold if you were romantic. It was the colour of life, of vibrant, exuberant pure magic.
Or it should have been.
What Pheone could see through her experienced attuned senses was dulled. Tarnished. Just slightly but there. If a shadow passed across the land it dulled the beauty of its colours. So it was with the Heart of Julatsa. A shadow was across it, dulling its beauty, hiding its power. It hadn't been there yesterday but it was there this morning. Hardly noticeable.
But if it grew it would take their power from them. Hide it behind impenetrable shade. And then the college would surely die. She couldn't allow that. Not while she had breath in her body. Dammit, if only Ilkar were here. How she needed his strength right now. At least their message should reach the battle lines outside Xetesk soon. The Al-Arynaar would have to help them, surely they would. Their mages stood to lose just as much.
She tuned back to normal light. The nausea was subsiding now she had its cause. She sat up and began to pull on her clothes, wondering if others had felt and seen what she had. She hadn't reached the door to pull it open before the first shout of alarm reached her ears.
Chapter 8.