Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 72 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Chapter 4

Ren’erei took Erienne and Lyanna along a wide, picture-hung, timbered and panelled corridor. It stretched fully seventy yards to a pair of plain double doors flanked by Guild guards. Other doors ran down its left-hand side and windows to the right overlooked a lantern-lit orchard.

On seeing the outside, Lyanna had forgotten her fear temporarily and run over to the window, mesmerised by the lanterns which swayed in the breeze, sending light flashing under the branches and broad leaves of the trees in the early evening gloom.

It was still very warm and Erienne had chosen a light, ankle-length green dress and had tied her hair up in a loose bun to let the air get to her neck. Lyanna wore a bright red dress with white cuffs, her hair in her favoured ponytail, the doll clutched, as ever, in her right hand.

‘Just how big is this place?’ asked Erienne, standing behind Lyanna and looking at another wing of the house over a hundred yards away, across the orchard.

‘That’s not an easy question to answer,’ said Ren’erei. ‘It has been standing since the Sundering and building has hardly stopped, even now when there are so few living here. It must cover much of the hillside. You should take a flight; you can see it all if you stay beneath the illusion. Suffice to say that though it is now only home to four, it was home to over eighty.’

‘So what happened?’ Erienne turned Lyanna away from the window and they walked on, passing ancient, faded pictures depicting burning cities, great feasts and running deer. It was an odd collection.

‘I think they were complacent about ensuring the line continued, until it was almost too late. As you’re aware yourself, producing a true adept is very difficult. Numbers soon dwindled and it was made worse by those that just didn’t want to stay their whole lives here. Despite the importance of the order, the will ebbed away. Who can explain that?’

They reached the doors, which were opened for them. Inside, a huge ballroom, decorated in red and white, decked with chandeliers and mirrors, took the breath away, though the covering dust told of its redundancy.

‘I’ll let them tell you the rest,’ said Ren’erei, taking them right across the ballroom to an innocuous-looking door. She knocked and opened it, ushering them into a small dining room. Oak-panelled and hung with elven portraits, it contained a long table around the far half of which sat four elderly women. They were talking amongst themselves until Lyanna and Erienne entered, the little girl clutching her mother’s leg.

‘It’s all right, Lyanna, I’m here and they’re friends,’ whispered Erienne, taking in for the first time, the majesty of the Al-Drechar.

Erienne had no doubt that she was in the presence of Balaia’s most powerful mages. Their faces told of people tired of life yet determined to survive, yearning for fulfilment to their long lives. It was the way she would always remember them.

Superficially, they were ancient elves, friendly enough but with the fierce expressions taut flesh dictated. Erienne saw shocks of white hair, bony fingers, long necks and piercing eyes. And then one spoke, her voice like balm on an open wound, quelling anxiety.

‘Sit, sit. We must all eat. You, my child, must be tired and scared after your long journey. We won’t detain you long. Your mother we might keep a little longer, if it’s all right with you.’

Lyanna managed a little smile as Erienne pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the table and ushered her to sit before taking the place next to her. Ren’erei took up a neutral position between the two groups.

‘You won’t hurt my mummy,’ said Lyanna, her eyes fixed on the blue cloth that covered the table.

‘Oh, my child, quite the reverse,’ said another. ‘We have been waiting too long to do anyone harm.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Introductions in a moment. First some food.’

Through a door to the left, a slim middle-aged woman came, carrying a large steaming tureen by ornate wooden handles. Behind her, a boy of no more than twelve carried a tray with a stack of bowls and plates piled with cut bread. Swiftly, beginning with Lyanna, they served a thick soup that smelled rich and wholesome and set Erienne’s stomach growling. She could see lumps of vegetable floating under the surface and the fresh aroma filled her nostrils.

‘Eat, dear child,’ said one of the Al-Drechar. Lyanna dipped a corner of her bread into the soup, blew on it and put it gingerly into her mouth. Her eyebrows raised.

‘It’s nice,’ she said.

‘Don’t sound so surprised, Lyanna,’ laughed Erienne. ‘I’m sure they have good cooks here too.’

‘I hope so.’ Slightly clumsily, she scooped liquid on to her spoon. For a time, they were quiet, all eating the soup, which tasted as delicious as it looked and smelled, before Ren’erei cleared her throat.

‘I think we’ve gone long enough without those introductions,’ she said. ‘Erienne, Lyanna, it is my great honour and pleasure to name for you the Al-Drechar.’ Erienne smiled at the light of reverence in her eyes.

‘To my right and moving around the table, Ephemere-Al-Ereama, Aviana-Al-Ysandi, Cleress-Al-Heth and Myriell-Al-Anathack. ’ She bowed her head to each in turn.

‘Oh Ren’erei, you’re so formal!’ Cleress-Al-Heth laughed. ‘You make us sound completely unapproachable.’ The other Al-Drechar joined the mirth and Ren’erei blushed, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly. ‘Please, Erienne, Lyanna,’ she continued. ‘We are Ephemere, Aviana, Cleress and Myriell, though you may hear us address ourselves with various other names which you are of course welcome to use.’

Erienne felt more at ease than she had done for days. The aura of the Al-Drechar dissipated a little though she remained mindful of their power and the clear magical vitality that they possessed. They were, on one level at least, just old elves and that was a comforting thought.

She studied them as the soup was drained, and her immediate impression was that they looked very much alike. It was inevitable, she supposed, after so many years living so close to one another, that they would share mannerisms, dress and even broad physical attributes. And though they were different enough through shape of nose and mouth, and through eye colour, she expected Lyanna to have trouble telling them apart for a few days.

‘You’ve lived together a long time, haven’t you?’ she asked.

Cleress smiled. ‘A very long time,’ she agreed. ‘Three hundred years and more.’

‘What?’ Erienne was taken aback. She knew elves had a potentially very long life span but three hundred years was extraordinary. Impossible.

‘We have waited here, scanning the mana spectra, conserving ourselves and planning for the next coming of someone who can take on the Way,’ said Aviana. She smiled ruefully. ‘We were getting a little desperate.’

‘How long have you been waiting?’

‘Three hundred and eleven years. Ever since the births of the babies: Myriell and Septern,’ replied Aviana.

Erienne gaped. Septern having been an Al-Drechar wasn’t really a surprise but the scarcity of the adepts certainly was. ‘And there have been none since then?’

‘Oh, there have been whisperings and our hopes have been raised and dashed more times than you have years in your body,’ said Cleress. ‘But let’s leave that for later. I see your beautiful daughter is wilting and we do need to talk to her before she sleeps. It’s been a long day.’

Erienne looked down. Lyanna was playing with the remains of her soup, trailing a piece of bread across its surface.

‘Lyanna, the ladies want to talk to you. All right?’

Lyanna nodded.

‘Are you still feeling shy, darling?’ asked Erienne.

‘A little,’ admitted Lyanna. ‘I’m tired.’

‘I know, darling. We’ll have you in bed soon.’ Erienne nodded for the Al-Drechar to speak.

‘Lyanna?’ Ephemere’s soft voice reached across the table and Lyanna raised her head to look at the friendly face of the Al-Drechar. ‘Lyanna, welcome to our home. We hope you want to make it your home too, for a little while. Do you want that?’

Lyanna nodded. ‘If Mummy stays here, I do.’

‘Of course she will, my dear child, won’t you, Erienne?’

‘Of course I’ll stay,’ said Erienne.

‘Now Lyanna.’ Ephemere’s voice took on a slightly harder edge. ‘You know there is magic inside you, don’t you?’ Lyanna nodded. ‘And you know that in your old home, it was starting to hurt you and your teachers couldn’t help you any more, and that’s why we came into your head and your dreams. To help you. Do you understand that?’ Another nod. Lyanna glanced up at Erienne who smiled down and stroked her hair.

‘Good,’ said Ephemere. ‘That’s very good. And how do you think we will help you?’

Lyanna thought for a moment. ‘You’ll make the bad dreams go away.’

‘That’s right!’ said Myriell, clapping her hands. ‘And we’ll do more. I know that the hurt inside you makes you angry sometimes. We’ll teach you how to stop the hurt and make the magic do the things you want it to do.’

‘You have a great gift, Lyanna,’ said Cleress. ‘Will you let us help make it safe for you?’

Erienne wasn’t sure that Lyanna had understood the last question but she nodded anyway.

‘Good. Good girl,’ said Ephemere. ‘Is there anything you want to ask us?’

‘No.’ Lyanna shook her head and yawned. ‘Mummy?’

‘Yes, my sweet. Time for bed, I think,’ said Erienne. The cook and serving boy came back and started clearing away the soup plates as Erienne picked up Lyanna. ‘I’ll get her settled and be back. It could be a while.’

Cleress shrugged. ‘Take your time. We’ll still be here. After this long, I think we can bear to wait a little longer to speak with you.’

Lyanna was asleep in Erienne’s arms before they had reached her room and barely stirred as she was put into her nightgown.

‘All too much for you, my sweet,’ whispered Erienne, tucking the doll under the sheets beside her and experiencing another wash of guilt. ‘Sleep well.’ She kissed Lyanna’s forehead and left the room, closing the door gently behind her. Ren’erei was waiting.

‘I’ll stand here and listen,’ she said. ‘If she stirs and calls for her mother, I’ll come for you.’

Erienne kissed her on the cheek, a sudden relief running through her.

‘Thank you, Ren’erei,’ she said. ‘You’re a friend, aren’t you?’

‘I hope so,’ the elf replied.

Erienne hurried back to the dining room to find the table laid with meat and vegetables in serving dishes sitting over candles. A flagon of wine stood on a tray with crystal glasses, and smoke from a long pipe in Ephemere’s hand curled towards the plain ceiling. A clear memory of Denser flashed through her mind; of him sitting against the bole of a tree, calmly smoking his foul-smelling tobacco while The Raven debated the end of everything. She smiled to herself and wished again he was with her.

‘She went straight to sleep then?’ asked Aviana. Erienne nodded. ‘Good. Good. Help yourself to food and wine and sit closer, then we shan’t have to raise our voices.’

Erienne took a little food and poured half a glass of wine before sitting next to Ephemere, who wafted smoke away from her.

‘I do apologise for this appalling habit,’ she said, sounding hoarse. ‘But we find the inhalation eases our lungs and aching limbs. Unfortunately, as you can hear, it rather affects our voices.’ She passed the pipe on to Aviana who sucked deeply, coughing as she swallowed the smoke that smelled of oak, roses and a sweet herb she couldn’t quite place.

As if seeing them for the first time, Erienne took in their age and frailty. In the candle– and lantern light, Ephemere’s skin looked so stretched across her face it might tear at any moment. It was very pale under her thick white hair, giving a stark backdrop to her sparkling deep emerald eyes, that displayed her magical vitality so effectively.

Her robes hung on a fleshless body from which her long, narrow neck, tendons and veins standing proud, jutted like a rock from a dark sea. Her hands were long, almost spidery, unadorned by jewellery and shaking slightly, her fingers ending in carefully tended short nails.

Erienne returned to those eyes and saw the light and warmth burning within them. Ephemere smiled.

‘I expect you’re thinking you didn’t get here a moment too soon,’ she said. ‘And you aren’t far from the truth.’

‘Oh Ephy, don’t be so dramatic,’ scalded Myriell, her voice ragged from the pipe.

‘Is it so?’ hissed Ephemere, tone hardening. ‘I, for one, will not hide from the risk we all take and the likely outcome for us all.’

‘The girl must know the truth. All of it,’ added Cleress.

‘Know what, exactly?’ asked Erienne, feeling a shiver in her mind. All the warmth had gone from Ephemere’s eyes though the power still burned there, as it did from all their faces.

‘Off you go, Ephy,’ said Cleress.

‘Erienne, as you can see, we are old, even for elves and there is a limit to how long even magic can delay the inevitable,’ said Ephemere.

‘And it would be fair to say we none of us would still choose to be alive were it not for our enforced wait,’ said Cleress.

Ephemere nodded. ‘You’re going to see things here that you won’t like. You’re going to want to stop us doing what we do with Lyanna. You will fear for her safety and you have every right to, because she will be in danger every day of her training. I’m afraid this is an unfortunate consequence of the damage done by her Dordovan teachers.’

‘Damage?’ Erienne stopped chewing, heart thumping in her chest, her head thick with a growing fear.

‘Calm yourself, Erienne, there is no lasting damage, either physical or mental. We have calmed the nightmares that threatened her in your College. The problem lies in that she is so very young to be accepting an Awakening. And if she fails to understand our teaching, the harm to her could be severe,’ said Aviana.

‘Death?’ Erienne hardly dared mouth the word.

‘That is the ultimate price any mage may pay for attempting to realise the gift of magic,’ said Cleress. ‘But for Lyanna, the consequences before death would be most distressing.’ She held up a hand to stop Erienne’s next question. ‘We know that Lyanna had already accepted Dordovan mana as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and it was this that first alerted us through the mana trails we have studied for so long.

‘But in her mind there is a conflict caused by her Dordovan training. Only part of her ability has been stirred and now we must awaken the rest, but we fear that the Dordovan-trained part of her mind will resist unless we can retrain it not to. It’s a difficult enough concept to grasp for anyone but for a child so young . . .’ Cleress shrugged.

Erienne put down her fork and held her hands to her mouth, searching for a way out. ‘Can you not just wait until she is older. Protect her from harm until she’s ready somehow?’

‘If we could, we would. But the process of her Awakening has been started. Unnecessarily.’ Myriell’s eyes bored into Erienne’s.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Whatever they may have told you, the Dordovan masters hoped their magic would stifle the rest within her, so like fools they went ahead to bring it out. No doubt they told you it was the only way to save her,’ said Myriell.

‘Well yes, but . . .’ There was a clamouring in Erienne’s mind, like an alarm bell ringing but far too late. She felt on the edge of panic.

‘What they wanted was to save themselves from her. But they had no real conception of what they were dealing with, Erienne, and your trust in them has put Lyanna in great danger from her own mind. And us with it.’

‘No, no, no.’ Erienne shook her head but couldn’t make sense of the tumble of thoughts. ‘You’re supposed to be able to help. Make her like you. How can she be in danger now? We’ve come here to be safe.’

Ephemere put a cold hand on Erienne’s arm.

‘Child, relax,’ she said, her tone soothing despite its roughness. ‘Here is what you must know, but first keep in mind that you are not to blame for anything that has happened and that your bringing Lyanna here was her only hope. And ours too. Had she stayed in Dordover, she would surely have perished.’

Erienne breathed deep and felt her heart slow a little. She nodded and looked up into Ephemere’s deep green eyes and waited for the Al-Drechar to continue.

‘Within Lyanna is an ability none but one of her own can understand and nurture. She doesn’t merely have the capacity to understand all College lores but has the innate knowledge of the base single force of magic that all mages once had. But to release it, she must first learn how to harness the individual strands. For her it will be like visiting the ManaBowl in each College to accept the mana and lore. This should be learned as one but Dordover has upset the balance.

‘I cannot begin to explain to you the sheer power she holds inside her but her ability to shape mana can already be felt over hundreds of miles. If we don’t teach her how to control her power, she could do immense damage before she inevitably kills herself. I’m afraid that in teaching her there will be problems. And while she learns, her mistakes will be a beacon for those who would do her harm. You will be the steadying influence on her life while she is at her most vulnerable. You must protect her.

‘She is so young and physically frail. The poor girl should not have had to face this until she was your age.’

‘But you can make it happen?’ Erienne searched those eyes.

‘We have to.’ It was Aviana who spoke. ‘Because if we fail, there will be no Al-Drechar.’

‘Why, what will happen to you?’ Erienne thought she knew the answer and so did Ephemere, who laughed.

‘Why Erienne, it takes all our energies to maintain ourselves and the illusions that protect us. I’m very much afraid that training your lovely daughter will be the death of us all.’ She smiled and squeezed Erienne’s arm. ‘But that is the way of things and death never comes quickly to an Al-Drechar.’

‘When will you begin?’ asked Erienne, not sure whether she should let them. Not just for Lyanna’s sake but for theirs too.

‘Tomorrow morning. Time is pressing. Ren’erei feels that our enemies are closer to us than they have ever been, as poor Tryuun’s wound demonstrates. We must be vigilant. Nothing must deflect us from our task,’ said Aviana.

Erienne had lost her appetite. In her dreams, she had seen the Al-Drechar as simply lifting the veil that fell between Lyanna and her understanding of the One. But now, with this talk of enemies, she was scared of what Denser would find in his way as he searched for her. And she found herself hoping he wouldn’t find her.

‘And now we should all take to our beds. The time for hard work and great strength is here. Sleep is the healer of the mind,’ said Cleress.

‘I’ll finish my wine,’ said Erienne, not able to even contemplate sleep. She took a sip and watched as the Al-Drechar helped each other from their chairs and made painfully slow progress to the ballroom door, each supporting another; Ephemere bowed under a curved back, Myriell ramrod straight but limping, Cleress tottering as if true balance eluded her and Aviana clearly plagued by arthritis in her knees.

They were just four terribly old women muttering to each other as they made their way to their chambers somewhere in the huge house. Erienne almost laughed at the thought that it would be almost dawn by the time they reached their destinations but managed to stifle it.

She poured another glass of wine and held it under her nose, letting its deep fruity aroma enclose her. What in all the hells had she done? She was entrusting the life of her daughter to a quartet of witches who all looked as if their final breaths were imminent. It should have appeared utter madness but somehow it made perfect sense and, through her fading anxiety Erienne saw what she had been searching for but that had eluded her until now.

A purpose for her and a chance for Lyanna.

Perhaps she would sleep well, after all.

Chapter 5

Ilkar awoke to the familiar sounds of hammering from outside on the College grounds. By the smell of it, the day was another dry one and a steady light shone around the gently billowing drapes covering the open window. Beside him in the bed, Pheone shifted and turned over to face the wall. Ilkar smiled, as he had been doing every morning since the night of the long-room testing five days before.

That had been a wild night. They’d set up rough carved and painted wooden blocks depicting Wesmen Lords and members, past and present, of the Xeteskian Circle Seven and the Dordovan Quorum. Taking turns, they had destroyed them using an imaginative range of offensive fire and ice spells, some better prepared than others.

Twenty mages had joined in the barrage, easing a frustration that had been building up for weeks. It had been a spectacular sight, with mage fire thrashing off the walls, ice shattering wood and forming deep icicles in the corners of the long room, that were subsequently burned away with tight-beamed flame, filling the place with steam. And every time he wasn’t casting, Ilkar had stood ready to deploy shields for those who didn’t have the targeting skills of their companions.

Ilkar had felt Pheone’s closeness the whole evening and in the drunken feast that followed, he’d found his arms around her and her head on his shoulder more times than he could count. His memories, though indistinct, were full of her flashing smile, her laughter and the revealing shirt she had worn.

The alcohol-fuelled sex had been abandoned and fantastic, though he had to confess to himself that time had blurred. He wasn’t sure it had been a lengthy experience but the feeling of a female body against his, even that of a non-elf, had been wonderful.

Pheone had quelled his concerns once their hangovers had cleared enough for their brains to function. Elves shouldn’t become involved with humans, the lifespan differences leading to inevitable heartbreak and, too often, the suicide of the almost-always elven survivor.

‘I don’t think either of us believe this will last,’ she had said. ‘But we need each other now. Try and enjoy it and don’t think too much about tomorrow.’

Ilkar wasn’t sure Pheone really believed her own words and their passion on subsequent nights had been physically if perhaps not emotionally profound. She had been right. Their sexual union had given him a new outlook on everything. He had allowed himself to become so wrapped up in the rebuilding of Julatsa, all else had paled. He had even found himself beginning to resent The Unknown’s infrequent visits, which was unforgivable. Pheone had reminded him how to relax and he found himself beginning to love her for that at least, if love was the right word.

More than that, though, he had started to look beyond the physical rebirth of the College to the longer term. The rebuilding of its psyche. There was so much to be done to attract mages back to Julatsa, to help it begin again, and he knew that, ultimately, he would need to leave to spread the word that his College of magic lived and breathed again.

But right now it was dormant and the place he had to be was here. He leaned over and kissed Pheone’s sleeping face before jumping out of bed on to the cold stone floor, grabbing green breeches and rough woollen work shirt. He pulled on a pair of sturdy calf-length boots, pushed his hands through his ruffled hair and, hunger building, walked out into the passage, heading for the refectory which lay across the courtyard.

Outside, the day was fresh and warming. Dawn was an hour gone and he glanced at the work being done on the library roof and to a new structure whose foundations had been laid over the last seven days. As he always did, Ilkar paused for a while at the hole in which the Heart lay, contemplating their greatest remaining task.

One day, it would see light again and the bodies of those entombed within, including Barras, the last elven negotiator, could be paid proper respect. He mouthed a short prayer that the Gods would deliver him the tools to do the job.

‘Ilkar!’ He spun at the sound of his name, recognising the voice instantly. Its owner came through the gap that had been the north gate, leading his horse, and behind him, a second sight that gladdened Ilkar’s heart still more.

‘Denser!’ He strode towards the gate. ‘Gods, they’ll let anyone in here these days.’

‘Sorry. I thought I had the freedom of the place after last time I was here.’

‘That you do.’ The two old friends embraced. ‘Let’s look at you.’ Ilkar stepped back and took in Denser’s face. ‘A bit dusty, perhaps. And certainly a touch of grey here and there. Oh, and you need a haircut. But still recognisable.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s great to see you. You’ve brought your hammer and chisel, I hope.’

Denser smiled. ‘Sorry, never did go in for it much. I brought my pipe, though.’

‘And I’ve missed its rank stench.’ Ilkar patted him on the upper arm and looked past him. ‘Hey, Unknown, it’s been a while.’ Ilkar tried to keep a smile on his face but seeing these two men riding through his College gates together could only mean one thing. Something bad, probably very bad, had happened.

The Unknown walked over and shook his hand warmly, his grip, as ever, crushing.

‘Too long,’ he said.

‘So.’ Ilkar returned his attention to Denser. The Xeteskian was tired despite the hour of the morning and seemed solemn. ‘How’s Erienne and Lyanna?’

Pain flashed in Denser’s eyes and his brows pinched slightly. Instead of answering, he looked to The Unknown for help.

‘That’s what brings us here,’ said the Big Man.

Ilkar nodded, his suspicion confirmed. ‘Oh I see. Are you hungry? We could talk over breakfast.’

The refectory was a long, low building set with a series of bench tables. It was quietening with most of the mages and paid workers already on site. Ilkar indicated a corner table and while the travellers made themselves comfortable, he went to the servery and packed a long wooden tray with bacon, bread and a large jug of coffee.

‘Here,’ he said as he sat. ‘Help yourselves. There’s more if you need it.’

While they ate, Denser talked of Lyanna’s progress and her nightmares, of Dordover’s obstructive Quorum, and of the disappearance of both Erienne and their daughter. Finally, he passed Ilkar the letter, which the elf read in silence, frown deepening with almost every line. He passed it back after he’d read it twice and refilled all their mugs.

‘If they find them first, they’ll kill them,’ said Denser.

‘Who will?’ asked Ilkar.

‘The Dordovans. Don’t you see?’

‘That’s a little extreme, don’t you think? There’s more to it than simple conspiracy. There’s potential risk to all Balaian magic systems.’

‘Don’t you start,’ said Denser. ‘Lyanna is the future for all of us, not our death and destruction. The Dordovans are just scared. All they need is education. No one is talking about an enforced return to the One Way, for God’s sake. No one alive is capable of practising it.’

‘Except Lyanna.’

Denser shrugged. ‘Yeah, except Lyanna. Possibly. Look, Ilkar, Vuldaroq is not interested in any multidisciplined mage being nurtured by anyone. He told me Balaia didn’t want another Septern. That’s why, if he can’t control her, he’ll kill her.’

‘So you want to find them?’ said Ilkar.

‘No, I want to offer them up to Dordover, chained to sacrificial altars,’ replied Denser.

‘Just checking you hadn’t completely lost your sense of humour.’

‘Of course I want to find them.’

‘And do what, exactly?’ asked Ilkar. ‘And that’s a serious question. ’

Denser regarded him as if he were an imbecile.

‘Ilkar, they are my family. I have to protect them.’

‘I think we both understand that,’ said The Unknown. He put down the sandwich he had made but not eaten while he’d listened, and leant forward. Ilkar had to smile; he’d lost none of his instant authority. ‘But you have been depicting the might of Dordovan magic lined up against us. What do you hope to achieve?’

‘A warning, if it’s needed. Organisation too. Erienne and Lyanna are already well protected, I know it. But we can help. We even the odds.’

‘Who?’ asked Ilkar.

‘The Raven.’

Ilkar took a long draw on his coffee, feeling the strong bitter taste flood down his throat. He’d known his fate the moment he’d seen The Unknown and Denser come through his gate together. Whatever The Raven could do, he had to help. Futile, possibly. Deadly, probably, if Lyanna and Erienne were in the hands of the power Denser thought they were. But whatever, he had to make sure they understood what they were up against.

‘Denser, there’s something you need to know.’

‘Go on. I feel sure it won’t be to my advantage.’

‘We’ve been seeing random mana activity in the sky. Lightning, flaring, showers, that sort of thing. Not a lot but definitely odd. We got talking about it a few days ago. Have you heard of the Tinjata Prophecy?’

Denser shook his head.

‘Didn’t think so. Neither had I, though perhaps you should have done. Haven’t you researched the Sundering at all?’

‘Not really,’ said Denser. ‘Beyond conditions for producing a child with the correct potential and those are well enough documented in Xetesk, I don’t think Erienne even disturbed the dust in the open vaults. Who was this Tinjata, then?’

‘Well Erienne should certainly have heard of him. He was the first High Elder mage of Dordover.’

‘She probably has,’ said Denser. ‘But she hasn’t told me about him.’

‘Never mind. We’ll ask her when we find her. The point is that Tinjata was instrumental in the Sundering and culpable in a number of horrific actions against mages of the One, the Al-Drechar. He formulated a prophecy based on some kind of extrapolation of mana theory and dimensional connectivity – the roots are long gone – and he posted it as a warning to all who believed in the continuation of the four-College structure.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Denser was frowning.

‘I asked around. Do you remember Therus? He helped you in the library during the siege? Well, he survived. He’s an ancient writings archivist and the time around the Sundering is an area of particular specialisation for him. And that includes the Tinjata Prophecy.’

‘And?’ Denser beckoned Ilkar to speak it.

‘Right. Well, Therus’ knowledge is incomplete because the Dordovans would never let him into their library but the summary is enough. “When the Innocent rides the elements, and the land lies flat and riven; the Sundering shall be undone and from the chaos shall rise the One, never again to fall.” Pretty clear, don’t you think?’ Ilkar felt his heart beating as he spoke the words, finding it impossible to imagine Lyanna, a child he had never seen, presiding over the destruction of Balaia. The idea was frankly ludicrous.