'Stand, Auum; you and your TaiGethen have no need to kneel before anyone, least of all the mere mouthpiece of a God.'
Auum stood and the two embraced. From the crowd he could hear cheering, and the chanting in the name of Yniss grew louder. Lysael kissed his forehead and stepped back. Her expression brought fresh tears to Auum's eyes.
'We cannot wait until the appointed day to perform this Harkening, ' she said. 'Let the ClawBound sing now.'
'It will be done. And we'll talk later.'
Auum moved past her to the front and centre of the stage. Few probably noticed him. Most were still engaged in prayer, chant and song celebrating the arrival of their priests. All but ignored, Auum turned to face the stone at the back of the Caeyin, spread his arms wide, tipped back his head and called to the ClawBound.
'Jal-ea! Jal-ea! Jal-ea.'
On the second repetition, he held the 'a'. The note boomed around the bowl, flying up the walls and into the darkening sky. It stilled song and chant and reduced prayer to a whisper. A ripple fled across the crowd and the ClawBound sang the final call to the Harkening.
It had no words. From the mouths of the panthers came a circulating low growl that echoed and layered in melancholy, from the Bound elves a sound from the top of the throat that ran up and down a scale of high pitch, modulating and harmonising. It cut through the air. It would travel through roof and wall. It would traverse the harbour and penetrate the timbers of every ship. None within earshot who heard it would deny the call. They could not.
The ClawBound would sing until night was full. And then all the elves gathered at Ultan-in-Caeyin would hear their fate.
Denser was aware that the four of them were attracting considerable attention. In one respect, it was what he wanted. The citizens needed to see their rulers taking the short walk along The Thread up to the Mount of Xetesk in apparent calm. Yet there was no disguising the tension that pervaded the streets. It had deepened even in the short time he had been in The Raven's Rest.
The walk was uncomfortable. Hirad, naturally, was not helping in the slightest, and this stressful stroll was banishing any lingering doubts that he was who he affirmed.
'For the last time, will you get your finger out of that wound?' hissed Denser.
Hirad was grinning at the disgusted expressions on the faces of those for whom he had been staging his little demonstration. Again.
'Sorry, my Lord Xetesk-man.'
'And stop calling me that.'
'Age hasn't stopped you being grumpy, has it? Made it worse if anything.'
Hirad came to his shoulder. Denser glanced at Sol, who was walking slightly behind with Diera and fielding questions from those brave enough to approach him.
'Yes, we do have reports. And the man next to our Lord of the Mount does claim to be one of them and we are going to ascertain his truth or falsehood. There will be a full statement nailed to every notice board in the city by dawn tomorrow. Please, until then, there is no need for fear. Xetesk will protect you whatever the outcome.'
Denser gripped Hirad's arm. 'Don't you say a damned thing.'
'I'm hurt,' said Hirad. 'I remember being known as the soul of discretion.'
Denser upped his pace a little. 'Even for you, that is a poor joke. This is serious, Hirad. Let Sol do his job and we'll talk about something else.'
'All right. How by every God crying did two members of The Raven end up as Lord of the Mount and, unbelievably, king, respectively?'
'You know neither of us really wanted what happened after the demons were beaten,' said Denser.
He felt cold. It was always the same when the dark days resurfaced in his mind.
'I believe that of Sol. Not so sure about you,' said Hirad.
'I'm really disappointed you think that of me.'
'Oh come on, Denser. I may have spent my youth in the wilds of Rache and my best years trying not to die but I did pause to look around once in a while. And even I know that every Xeteskian mage aspires to the Mount. Why are you different?'
'I'm not. And yes, I did aspire to the Mount but not in the way it happened. Because I didn't want The Raven to be gone. But it has gone and we move on. And does not every man aspire to be king? To rule others?'
Hirad jerked a thumb at Sol. 'In his case, no. Seems to me you've been shut in the Mount for too long.'
'Seems to me you haven't been dead long enough.'
Denser saw Hirad flinch. So hard to believe it really was him behind the mask of a murdered merchant; so hard to argue it wasn't him having heard him speak of things none but Hirad would know. The heartbeat of The Raven, Sol always called him. He never had been good at tact, though.
'Sorry, Hirad.'
Hirad shrugged. A line of fresh blood leaked from his wound.
'It's just that you weren't here and you don't understand what happened in the aftermath of the demon war.'
'Being dead does take the edge off, doesn't it?'
Denser sighed and stopped walking. 'Whatever else you blame me for, don't blame me for surviving, all right? If you're bitter, fine, that's your choice. Me and Sol, we've had to get on because it's the only thing left to do. Not a day goes by that I don't wish you were still alive. And not a moment goes by that I don't want Erienne, my wife remember, to be beside me still. We're trying to build something worth the sacrifice you and the rest of The Raven's dead made that day. Wallowing in grief and bitterness won't do it. Remembering your friends and those you loved that would lay down their life for you, that is what is behind every breath I take.'
'Right, I get it,' said Hirad. 'Your wealth and position are things that you hate. A heavy burden you take on your shoulders for the good of us all. Well, we'll see what you're made of, won't we? Because what's coming at you is going to make the demons seem like irritating insects.'
Denser smiled. 'It's been a long decade and we have made great strides. Perhaps I should show you a few reasons why we shouldn't get too worried about this enemy right now.'
'Well my time dead hasn't dampened Xeteskian complacency at all, has it?'
'Let's keep this for inside four walls, shall we?' Sol's voice stayed Denser's next words. 'And can we move on? I've become tired of repeating myself. We need to compose a city wide announcement.'
'Yep, one that orders immediate evacuation,' said Hirad.
'Where to?' Denser spread his arms. 'Somewhere safer than within the walls of Balaia's most powerful city? I'm sure we'd all love to know where this mystical place is.'
'Denser . . .' began Sol.
'I don't know,' said Hirad. Tears had begun to fall down his cheeks. 'I just know we can't stay here and I want you to believe me before the pain inside gets too bad. Please, Denser, I don't want to be here but I know I have to help.'
Denser stared at Hirad and sucked his lip, feeling about as tall as the pebble by his foot.
'Let's get to the Mount, shall we?' he said.
There were a few people waiting at the gates of the college. All of them were plainly bodies of the recently deceased; and all of them were waiting for Denser and for Sol.
In a large meeting room in Denser's tower sat The Raven. Or rather, the souls who had once made up The Raven now unhappily ensconced in other bodies. What struck Denser immediately was that some of them had never even met each other though they had all been part of Balaia's most famous fighting team. What made him uncomfortable was that Sirendor Larn, who was currently seated next to Hirad, kept staring at him. He could understand the baleful expression. But mostly he just felt sad because this was an unwanted reunion for them.
The silence was stifling, adding to the already suffocating odours emanating from the assembled bodies that the opening of every window and balcony door had failed to address to any significant degree. While none of the bodies had ever been interred, each had brought with it the dirt of where it had fallen and in some cases the disease that had killed it. One of Denser's mages had already cast a number of cleansing spells.
'You know, it's depressing to realise that so many Xeteskians die alone and lost,' said Denser.
No one replied. The Raven were staring at one another, desperately trying to come to terms with their plight. The shadows on the walls from the steady light of lanterns picked out the true identity of each soul, but more than that, they all just knew too much to be any other than who they said they were. And, that done, they had lapsed into this confused quiet.
So much tragedy, so much irony too. Darrick the great cavalry general had found a body most unlikely to prove as competent in the saddle as he had been. Very tall and altogether too middle-aged. Died of a heart attack.
And Ren'erei too, lover of Ilkar, now sitting bewildered and scared, in pain and with nothing anyone could do about it, not in the short term. Her new body was that of a girl of about twelve. Pretty but for the sores across her face, evidence of the disease which had claimed her.
But no greater cruelty than poor Erienne in the body of a five-year-old girl. Erienne's daughter, his daughter, Lyanna had been five when she had died. And she was not here. And of The Raven, four were missing, most notably Thraun the shapechanger.
There were tears running down Ras's cheeks. The warrior, who had died on the same day Denser met The Raven at Taranspike Castle, was rocking back and forth, his arms folded tightly around his ribs. His body was that of a middle-aged man who had died of a cancer of the kidneys. The body was yellow and covered in dull brown spots. Ras's soul had made the body walk but that was about all.
'This man did not die alone,' said Ras eventually, his voice rasping out over a throat raw from coughing up the blood that still stained his once-white woollen shirt. 'As his soul fled, mine entered his body. He is lost forever and all I have done is cause such pain to his family, all there to comfort him into death. I don't understand why I'm here.'
Sirendor put a hand on his shoulder. 'It will come to you. It seems both you and I have been dead a long time. How fate plays her hand, eh?'
'We can ease the pain further,' said Denser. 'Fix you up so at least you can function.'
Denser felt Sirendor's gaze again and there was hate in it. He met it full on. Large bloodshot eyes stared out of a thickset face with chin, neck and cheeks hidden by a large growth of beard. What could be seen of the skin was sheet white. Blood matted the beard on his neck and dried onto a filthy brown shirt that reeked of damp. The slashed throat still oozed when he turned his head. It needed properly repairing before too long or he wouldn't be able to start his heart, much as Hirad couldn't just yet.
'I didn't mean it to be the way it was,' said Denser.
'That's comforting. One little cut of a poisoned blade. The wrong man moulders in the ground and the other rises to become Lord of the Mount.'
'I'm sorry, Sirendor. I don't know what else to say.'
'Your death saved Balaia from the Wytch Lords,' said Sol. 'You died a hero.'
'No, I didn't. A hero should know his death has meaning. I had no such knowledge. I died with a heart full of hate for him. And I have come back with it too.'
'And what of your time dead?' asked Hirad. 'Why did we not find you?'
Sirendor shrugged. 'There are corners of our resting places for us all, did you not know? I abided with many whose hearts were blackened at the moment of their passing. Together, we eased our suffering and knew the joy of death just as all of us surely have. But it seems the hate never really leaves our souls. Does it, Ras?'
Ras shook his head and his eyes locked on the boy across the table from him. Nine years old and dead of a waterborn illness that was still ravaging the poor tenements in the north-west of the city. He wore the loose-fitting nightshirt in which he had died; his hair was lank about his face and his lips were swollen as was the tongue in his head. He could not meet Ras's eyes.
'Nothing to say to me, Richmond?' asked Ras. 'You broke the first rule of fighting in line and I died. Nothing to say?'
Richmond shook his head.
'We were friends, weren't we?' continued Ras. 'All those years together even before The Raven. Nothing to say after what you did?'
The boy slammed his hands on the table and stood. His voice was shrill.
'I lived with it. Every day after, I lived with it. And when the Black Wing struck me down I was glad because the pain of the blow was nothing compared to that I carried with me. And I sought you out then. But I could not find you. Do not hate me, Ras. Don't make that the reason you were called back.'
The boy's chin was wobbling. He sat back down. Beside him, neither Ilkar nor Erienne offered any support.
'It gives me something to hang on to and that'll have to do for now,' said Ras.
'You know, we've only just sat down but I think we should break till morning. Give us all a chance to settle our emotions and make repairs to our bodies, those that need them,' said Ilkar.
People immediately began getting up to leave.
'That's just terrific,' said Hirad.
Denser could feel the beginnings of a smile on his face despite the tone of Hirad's voice. He caught Sol's eye and the big man winked. Hirad didn't notice.
'The Raven. Sitting round a table hating each other. Aeb, Erienne, anyone you want to point the finger at? No? Well, thank the Gods falling for that at least. For me, I'm here to do something. Help those I loved in life escape the menace that ripped our rest to shreds. I haven't come here to settle old scores. Anyone who does, leave now; you are not welcome. And though I love you, Sirendor, that means you too. Give it up. You tried to save Denser and you died. It still hurts. But it is not his fault. And whatever you think, you are a hero.
'Ras, you could start a fight with yourself if my memory serves and we need your aggression. Don't waste it.'
Hirad looked deep into each one of them.
'It is not hate that brought any of us back. But hate will undo us and cast our souls into the void. None of us wishes to be here but here we are, and any of us who turns, turns against the memory of everything The Raven became. Now I know that when some of you died we were just mercenaries and it was all about money.
'Well, money means nothing to a dead man, so what you do, you will do because you love those who stand with you. If anybody can't deal with that, step forward now. And I don't care if you look like a sick old man or a little boy or girl, I will drop you where you stand and send your soul screaming into the night. Whatever you take with you as you leave here now, take this: 'Dead or alive, when we stand together, we are The Raven.'
The ClawBound song was still resonating in the depths of the cliffs and out into the rainforest when Lysael began to speak. Before her, the elves crowded in. Ysundeneth had emptied. Children sat in the laps or on the shoulders of their parents, who sat or stood cheek to cheek with their families and neighbours. Tens of thousands of torches and lanterns set up a glittering picture, a firmament of elven-kind. Humans came too and this time were welcome. It concerned them in equal measure.
Auum could feel the awe from the crowd as they looked at the assembly on the stage. The stage itself was a gently sloping platform that swept back four hundred yards and measured more than a quarter of a mile across. It was lit by Keyel's Globes maintained by Al-Arynaar mages standing in the wings to either side. An arched timber roof painted with the colours of vibrant joy, a reminder of better times, projected the sound out over the bowl.
The stage floor was busy with the great and the rarely seen of Calaius. In addition to the seven high priests, a thousand Al-Arynaar stood as an honour guard. In front of them forty TaiGethen cells; and every Tai in every trio felt much as Auum did. Uneasy in the company of so many. Even a little nauseous.
'Friends, hear our words.'
Lysael's voice silenced the crowd completely. Expectancy, fear and pride swept over those present. A powerful mix, uplifting to the mass.
'A Harkening is called only in times of the most dire threat to all in the elven nation. Most of you would hope never to hear the call, whether Ynissul, Tuali, Gyalan or indeed human. There was no time to call Harkening when the Elfsorrow swept us. Now there is, but barely.'
There was a ripple through the crowd, quickly hushed. Lysael held up an ancient volume. The elves' most sacred text.
'The Aryn Hiil speaks of much that is central to the life of every elf in our nation. Of what made us, our purpose, where we came from and why. Hear me, my brothers, my sisters, my children. Hear the Words of the Earth.' She allowed herself the briefest smile. 'And forgive my translation. These are words not often spoken.
' "And from the air they came, as if spun into creation on the instant. With a voice that spoke friendship and a hand that spoke death. Some were joyous. The petty ire of elves forgotten. All faces turned to a mighty foe that cared not for battle yet garnered it with every pace.
' "Civilisation be trampled underfoot. Sucked in by the bellows of machines that bled the land dry. Yet proud are elves. And doughty. But for pain inflicted on our enemy, thrice back and more it came upon us. Oh that all should have taken up arms.
' "And so the greedy and the powerful clutched to their trappings and they died with them. And the weak and the young in dreadful numbers too high to count, the tears blurred eyes and minds.
' "Yet still we linger though not where we began. That place is lost in time and memory. The weak faced death, the strong searched for answers. And across the void they travelled and slammed the door against the faces of the enemy. Yet drifting across the emptiness, came the promise of destruction.
' "Even so, vigilance pales. Eyes turn and ears are distracted. When again the footfall is heard seek not battle. Seek instead Home. Because they are come and all you thought yours is dust and ashes though you still hold it in your hands.
' "They are come. Garonin." '
Auum felt the pages of his life turning. The entry in the Aryn Hiil was typically short but for those with memories long enough it unlocked all the pain, fear and despair. In the utter silence that followed Lysael's reading, Auum thought he could hear weeping mixed with the crackle of ten thousand torches and the nervous shuffling of infants.
Lysael waited a moment for her words to sink in. And when she spoke again, her voice was barely in check.
'Speaking words unchains the beast,' she said, her whisper carrying across the silence. 'There is no easy way. There is no way that can ensure success or even raise the odds above poor. But we have to leave and leave now. Shorth is silent. Our loved ones cannot be heard. In the Temple of Shorth, High Priest Ryish, witnessed by our own Auum and Rebraal, saw the passage of a soul denied and heard the poor victim speak the word. The Garonin are coming. They are already landed in the southern territories and they move north unstoppable. They will be on our seaboard in three days at most. We have no choice but to seek Home the only way we know how.'