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 aftereffects 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 fleshlike suppleness.
And in the branches, the leaves danced and rustled, twisting and bending along their lengths, their gentle susurrations almost musical. It was a beautiful sight and Cleress gazed back at Lyanna, wondering what it was the little girl imagined she saw and heard.
“Are they good friends?” asked Cleress. “They look pretty.”
“Yes they are, but they can't talk to you because you wouldn't understand.”
“Oh, I see. And what are they saying to you?”
“There are bad people coming here but good people too, to help us. And you're very tired and it's because of me but it's all right really.”
Cleress was speechless. She glanced over to Ephemere but her sister was deep in concentration, eyes closed, hands held at her midriff.
“How do they know that? They must be very clever.”
Lyanna nodded, the leaves rustled as if in applause.
“They know because that's how it feels, silly.”
The elderly Al-Drechar stifled a gasp. Lyanna was feeling communication through the nuances of the mana flow. Some of it she probably picked up from conversations with Erienne but the rest was somehow being filtered from the random force roaring through her head. Had to be. But it also had to be terribly draining and dangerous. She only hoped Ephemere was in control of the flaring.
“And have your friends told you anything else?” Cleress almost feared the answer.
Another nod from Lyanna but this time her smile was gone and her eyes moistened.
“It's going to get dark soon and I won't be able to see them for ages. And I might get lost but you will help me.”
“Oh, Lyanna, dear,” said Cleress, her heart brimming with sorrow. “Say goodbye to your friends. I'm afraid Night is coming.”
There it was. Quite unmistakable. Like the first breath of wind on a becalmed sea. And again.
Far to the south, north of Calaius, the mana spectrum was in flux. This far away, the movement was slight but its very abnormality was its fascination and its betrayer.
The experienced mage could sense the casting of spells throughout Balaia with the mind tuned to the base spectrum, brief oases of order rising from total chaos. But these eddies were altogether different, almost alien and undoubtedly emanating from a collapsing static spell. Interpretation was still difficult, though. They were slight, mere nudges at the random whole.
The Dordovan master, Gorstan, stood and sensed until he was completely sure. This was not Balaian magic. It had a quality of completeness even in its distress, that he could not have achieved. This was magic from another power, a greater power, and through his distaste, he felt awe.
Gorstan turned, reattuning his eyes to the dull grey light from the heavy Balaian sky.
“I have them,” he said.
Selik smiled, a twisted sneer affecting only half his disfigured face.
“How far?”
Gorstan shrugged. “Days. It's impossible to be more accurate from here but I suspect its base to be in the Ornouth Archipelago.”
“If you'll excuse me, Gorstan.”
“With great pleasure,” replied the Dordovan. Selik nodded curtly and swept away, the hood of his cloak back over his face, two aides by his sides.
Gorstan watched him go then turned back toward the south, head down, eyes fixed on the ripples on the largely still waters of the River Arl as it fed into the Southern Ocean.
He supposed Vuldaroq was right and that Selik was a useful ally for now. But he couldn't help thinking that Dordover would be forever mired by their now open contact with the Witch Hunters. Gorstan was nominally in charge of the one hundred mages and two hundred foot now billeted all around Arlen and it wasn't hard to sense the nervousness among the sleepy port's populace. And, with rumours of Xetesk on the way, backed by Protectors, he wondered whether it wasn't really Selik who was driving it all.
Vuldaroq was due in Arlen shortly and the sooner he arrived, the better.
Hirad, The Unknown and Ilkar led their four horses into Greythorne late in the evening. Cloud still hung heavy in the sky, the wind whipping across open land. Everywhere, the ravages of the wind had been evident as they had ridden in: flattened plains grass, interspersed with sections of dirt where stalks had been torn out at the roots and, here and there, the corpses of animals and even two people that none of the survivors had yet found.
They had been a middle-aged couple, huddled together inside a barn that had collapsed on top of them, crushing their bodies beneath thatch a
nd beam. Ilkar had spotted them as The Raven had ridden past to see if they could help. All that was left for them was a burial.
Not long after leaving Thornewood, they'd come across a ragtag column of refugees heading south to Gyernath from Rache in the north. Rache had been struck by gales off the Northern Ocean and a massive mudslide from surrounding hills. It had engulfed most of the town, burying many alive. Those that had survived had fled, believing it would be safer in Gyernath, a warm, tranquil southern port. The Raven hadn't the heart to tell them that nowhere was safe.
The last leg of the journey had been slow and largely silent, each of them brooding on what they had seen and heard on the road. Greythorne was the worst of it.
As The Raven approached, the multiple lights had given them hope that the quiet market town had escaped the hurricane. But closer to, the gathering gloom could not obscure the reality.
What Hirad thought were sloping roofs revealed themselves as part-collapsed walls, leaving angles of broken stone spearing into the sky. The lattice of swept cobbled streets that ran to the market place was filled with rubble and debris. Dust blew through the town and the only roofs standing were tented ones, raised as emergency shelter.
The Raven had seen this sort of destruction before, albeit not on such a scale, but it was the people that brought home the horror of what had befallen Greythorne.
Although the hurricane must have struck two or three days before, the shock was only now setting in. Hirad could well imagine what had happened in its immediate aftermath. Adrenalin and panic would have banished fatigue as teams of survivors battled to find loved ones, free the trapped and salvage anything useful. Indeed, stacks of crates under skins and canvas spoke of the scale of the effort.
But the first night without proper shelter, sleeping in the ruins of once proud houses and, following that, the first dawn, would have sapped wills and leached morale away. Those awash with energy the previous night would have woken dark eyed and exhausted as they looked on their town, and realised that all they were going to uncover now were bodies.
And this is how they were. Faces streaked with dirt, men and women worked as hard as they could but the spirit was gone. Eyes were wide and uncomprehending, still disbelieving.
They walked past a child wrapped in a blanket and sitting under a small, staked-out leather bivouac. No more than five, he was too traumatised even to cry. He just sat, stared and shivered. The Gods only knew what he had seen and the fate of his parents.
Walking into the main square, The Raven, who had been largely ignored, saw signs of the organisation behind the desperately slow but determined activity. The town hall and grain store were gone but for a corner which still supported windows, their glass reflecting lantern light like malevolent multifaceted eyes. An open-fronted marquee was pitched below it, lit up like daylight, and within, men and women swarmed around tables marking maps and parchments or prepared hot and cold food and drink.
In the centre of it all sat a man bandaged around the right eye and right leg. Even from twenty yards, he was pale and haggard, a deep-etched face, grey hair and a drained body fighting hard against exhaustion.
“We need to speak to him,” said The Unknown.
“You two go on. I'll find somewhere for the horses,” said Ilkar.
The Unknown nodded and he and Hirad walked into the warm tented space to be stopped by a young man, scared and tired.
“Out-of-towners? Come to help?” he asked, long blond hair hanging all over his pale, thin features.
“We are The Raven,” said The Unknown by way of reply. “We're looking for Denser.”
The young man drew in a sharp breath.
“He said you'd be coming.” He nodded them on toward the bandaged seated man. Hirad put a hand on his shoulder.
“And yes, if we can do anything to help, we will.”
A smile brought a spark of life to his bloodshot eyes.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”
The Unknown walked up to the man who still wore his mayoral chains and dark green cloak of office around his shoulders. He put out a shaky hand which The Unknown took and shook warmly.
“Gannan. At least you're alive.”
“Barely, Unknown, barely. I'd say it was good to see you but I fear your appearance here has little to do with salvage and much to do with the causes of all this mess.”
Ilkar had walked up to Hirad's shoulder.
“Is there anyone he doesn't know?” whispered Hirad.
“Apparently not,” replied the elf. “I've left the horses with a local. There's a makeshift picket and stable in the west of the town.”
The Unknown ignored them.
“You've spoken to Denser?” he asked.
“Not at great length, but yes.” Gannan shifted on his chair, using both hands to adjust the position of his injured leg. “He's very agitated, Unknown. Not making too much sense.”
“Where is he? We need to speak to him.”
Gannan gestured toward a table nearby. “Some refreshment first, surely?”
“No,” said The Unknown. “Save it for your people. We'll find our own.”
“He was behind the grain store a while back, wanting some peace and quiet. You could try there.”
“Thanks Gannan, we'll talk later.” He turned away. “Hirad, you staying or coming?”
Hirad shrugged. “I've got to talk to him sometime. It may as well be now.”
The Unknown nodded. “Good.” He led the way outside.
The grain store had butted on to the town hall but was little more than a pile of rubble. Beyond it, to the north end of Greythorne, the activity and light were lessened, though the devastation was equally as severe. Clearly, there were simply not enough survivors to work everywhere.
But someone was moving through the debris, punctuating the windblown quiet with the shifting of slate and the grating of stone on stone.
“Denser,” said Ilkar, pointing away into the gloom.
For a time, Hirad couldn't make him out against the drab, dark background, then he saw his head move.
Denser was crouched in the rubble of what had probably been a house. Timbers were scattered around and slate, thatch and stone was piled where the corners of the walls still stood, defiant. He was holding something and, as they moved closer, they could see it was a tiny human hand.
He appeared not to notice them as they approached, just held the hand in one of his and stroked it gently with the other. Close too, over the noise of the wind, Hirad could hear he was murmuring but couldn't make out the words.
“Denser?” The Unknown's tone was soft. The Dark Mage started and turned to them, his face streaked with tears, his eyes black holes in the shadow of the night.
“Look what she's done,” he whispered, his voice choked and thick. He swallowed. “This has gone too far.”
Ilkar crouched by him. “What are you talking about?”
Denser indicated the hand in his. Ilkar followed it. It belonged to a young boy, no more than five, though in truth it was hard to tell. His head had been crushed by falling stone.
“You can't blame Lyanna for this,” he said.
“Blame Lyanna?” Denser shook his head. “No, but she's the cause of it all. You can feel what drives the wind even now. Imagine it fifty times as strong and tearing down your walls. It's a miracle any of them lived. If anyone's to blame, it's me and Erienne.”
“I don't think it's that simple,” said Ilkar. He shifted his position and took the child's hand from Denser's unresisting fingers and placed it back in the rubble.
“Only I can stop this thing. Only me,” said Denser, his eyes wild, his voice wavering. “You have to get me to her. You have to.”
“I think it's time you stopped torturing yourself and came away from here.” Ilkar looked up. “Reckon we can find anywhere private?”
Hirad shrugged. “If we build it ourselves.” Ilkar's eyes flashed anger. “We'll sort something out. C'mon, Denser. Time you had a hot drink.
”
Every covered and sheltered space was crammed with people, the very young, the injured and the precious few carers. The Raven walked out of the centre of the town and laid a fire in a scrabbled together circle of stone from a building that had been cleared of any victims. With borrowed water heating in The Unknown's old iron jug, Denser calmed a little but his hands were jittery and his attention wandered fitfully.
“Surprised you're even here, Hirad,” he said, attempting a smile. Hirad didn't return it.
“I wouldn't be but Sha-Kaan needs the Al-Drechar. Apparently ancient mages are the last chance now everyone else has let him down.”
“Can we leave that for another time?” Ilkar's voice was pained. “How long have you been here, Denser?”
The Xeteskian shrugged. “A day. I was delayed. There's so much mess. I had to try and help, didn't I?”
“You can't hold yourself responsible,” said Ilkar.
“Can't I? Isn't this what Erienne and I wanted? The Child of the One. Balaia's most powerful mage.” He spat out the words. “But she's out of control and we must stop her. I must stop her.”
Ilkar looked at The Unknown and Hirad. “What did I tell you?”
The Unknown nodded. “If he believes it too, then I guess I'm prepared to. But that doesn't change why I'm here, and don't you forget it. Denser, we'll find her and help her control this. Or rather, you will, if you say so. Ilkar's explained it may be her Night.”
“And what will be left when dawn breaks for the Night Child, eh?” Denser swept an arm around him. “Just look at this place. All the death. And I've heard the other stories. They're all over the town. Not just what we've seen. This is happening everywhere.” He put his head in his hands. “Magic has done this. That's what the survivors are saying here. But it's not just that, is it? It's my daughter. Mine. You've got to get me to her.”
“Come on, Denser, calm it down now. You need some rest. Hirad, we need a hot drink for him,” said Ilkar.
Ilkar sat back and let the silence roll over them all. Denser was biting back more tears. The Unknown and Hirad presumably were digesting Denser's words. There seemed little more to say and Ilkar found he'd lost the energy. He hoped that daylight would bring some level-headed talk.
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