The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  His arrival at the College gates had triggered a flurry of activity, culminating in the hastily arranged meeting; abhorrence of the individual was outweighed, at least temporarily, by incredulity and a desire to learn what had brought the man to a place from which he could never hope to leave.

  ‘The risk you take is unbelievable, Selik,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘Indeed, I’m amazed you aren’t dead already.’

  ‘Lucky for you that I’m not,’ said Selik to snorts of derision from the Quorum, his speech slow, thick and incomplete, the result of his horrific facial injuries.

  Vuldaroq studied Selik’s features and could barely suppress a smile of satisfaction. The left-hand side of his face appeared as if it had been smeared by the careless swipe of a brush on wet paint. The bald eyebrow angled sharply down, the sightless eye beneath it milky white and unmoving. The cheek was scored as if by the drag of heavy claws and it pulled the mouth with it, forcing Selik to speak through a perpetual sneer. It was a fitting expression, completed by left side upper and lower jaws slack and devoid of teeth.

  And all caused by the spell of a Dordovan mage. It had been believed that Erienne’s IceWind had killed the Black Wing and number two to Captain Travers but somehow he survived it and the fire that The Raven had laid in the Black Wings’ castle. And with him the Witch Hunter order. Less numerous now but no less zealous.

  ‘I can never envisage a time when your not being dead would be lucky for any Dordovan mage,’ said High Secretary Berian, his face curling into an unpleasant smile.

  ‘Then envisage it now,’ said Selik. ‘Because, like it or not, we are after the same thing.’

  ‘Really?’ Vuldaroq raised his eyebrows. ‘I would be fascinated to know how you reached that conclusion.’ A smattering of laughter ran along the table. Selik shook his head.

  ‘Look at you, sitting there so smug it nauseates me. You think no one is aware of what you do yet I know you have lost a great prize and you want it, her, back. And I am the only one who can really help you. And help you I will, because in this quest we are in accord. This magic cannot be allowed to prosper or it will destroy us all. I know the direction of their travel and I know at least one of those who helped them.’ He stopped, studying their faces. Vuldaroq could taste the silence his words engendered.

  ‘Got your attention now, haven’t I? The Black Wings see all and always will. Remember that, O mighty Quorum of Dordover. As you are well aware by now, the Al-Drechar are no myth; we just don’t know where to find them. But if we work together, we will, believe me.’

  ‘Your front is extraordinary as is your blindness, if you think for one moment that we would suffer to join forces with Black Wings!’ Berian’s face was contorted and red with rage. ‘Have you taken leave of what remains of your senses?’

  Selik shrugged and smiled, a grotesque leer on his ruined face. ‘Then kill me and never learn what we know. The trouble is, you haven’t the time to risk me being right after killing me, have you? Late at night in Dordovan taverns, your mages are not always as discreet as you might wish. Much has reached our ears and it is very interesting. Very interesting indeed.’

  ‘But you haven’t come here to exercise your altruistic streak, have you Selik?’ asked Vuldaroq. ‘You want something. What is it?’

  ‘Ah, Vuldaroq. Not always as fat in the head as you might look. It’s quite simple. You want the girl back, to educate, control or dispose of as you see fit. You can have her and I will help you get her. But in return, I want the witch that did this to my face.’ He poked a finger at his hideous scarring. ‘Give me Erienne Malanvai.’

  And in the storm of protest that followed, Vuldaroq allowed himself a small chuckle.

  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, b
lew 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 soo
n,’ 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.