The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Ilkar nodded. ‘Also true. Look, I’m not for one moment saying that we should leave Lyanna to the Dordovans, or anyone for that matter, besides you and Erienne.’

  ‘What are you saying then?’ asked Denser.

  ‘That we should be aware of the wider picture while we search. Putting aside whether the prophecy is true or not, or even relevant to this debate, Dordover will act on the premise that it might be; and their actions, if not stemmed, will divide the Colleges, and none of us want that. It doesn’t take a genius to see Dordover and Lystern seeing a threat to their independence and identity, and Xetesk looking to broker power and ultimately force a reunion as the dominant party. It all hinges on who controls Lyanna. As for Julatsa, well—’ he gave Denser a rueful smile ‘—we’re nowhere, but no less determined to see our magic and beliefs survive.’

  Denser rested his head in his hands, pulling them down his face and talking through his fingers. ‘Ilkar, you’re taking this too far,’ he said. ‘She’s one child. She can’t do anything alone.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me yourself, the Dordovans clearly don’t share that view,’ returned Ilkar.

  ‘And we are fairly sure she isn’t alone,’ added The Unknown.

  Ilkar sighed and drained his coffee. ‘Look, Denser, you have to make a full report to Xetesk on this. You know you do. Gods, I don’t suppose they even know Erienne is gone yet. The point is that they can apply significant pressure on the Dordovans to curb any designs they may have on Lyanna’s life. That leaves us to search for your family unmolested, so to speak.’

  ‘Officially, anyway,’ said The Unknown. He stretched his arms above his head, his shoulder muscles bunching, shirt stitching pulling.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Ilkar. ‘This is going to spread. The rumours about Lyanna have been around even here, though as no more than a point of interest. But soon there’ll be a lot of questions, particularly if Colleges start throwing their weight around. Tinjata’s prophecy intimates a return to the One Way and that bothers most mages, me included.

  ‘We can’t afford a conflict so let’s tread a little carefully, eh?’

  Denser shrugged and his mouth twitched up at the corners. ‘You’re right. I know you’re right. That’s probably why I came here first. I needed a level-headed view. Thanks, Ilkar.’

  ‘A pleasure. Right, I suggest a day’s rest for you while I sort out my affairs here and make my excuses, then a ride to Dordover and then to Xetesk.’

  ‘Why Dordover?’ asked Denser.

  ‘Because Therus is away from Julatsa and you really need to read the prophecy, and that’s where the original lore script and translation are held. Assuming they’ll let you in.’

  ‘And someone must have seen something of Erienne at the time she was escaping,’ said The Unknown. ‘You just have to ask the right questions. Hmm. We could do with Will or Thraun. They knew Dordover’s underbelly well. Still, perhaps their names will open a few doors.’

  ‘There’s something missing here,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Hirad,’ said The Unknown, nodding.

  ‘We’ll collect him after we’ve been to Xetesk,’ said Denser.

  ‘It won’t be that simple,’ warned The Unknown. ‘After all, his dragons are still here.’

  Hirad kicked sand over the fire outside his single-roomed stone-and-thatch hut and walked into the Choul. It was not ideal, not for a Kaan dragon. The wind echoed down the gaping maw of a cave forty feet wide, spreading a chill in the winter months for which even three dragons nested together could not fully compensate.

  What they really needed was the heat and mud of a Kaan dwelling, but for that Hirad had to have builders, ironsmiths and labourers. And as with so much that concerned the saviours of Balaia, people simply turned their backs and chose to forget.

  To a point, Hirad understood. Half a day’s ride away in Blackthorne, the Baron still struggled to rebuild his dismembered town. And he alone had sent people to help make the mountain as comfortable as it could be. At least Hirad had a roof separate to that of the Kaan, and a lean-to stable for his nervous horse.

  Lighting a lantern, Hirad turned the wick low, aware that his dwindling oil supply would force a trip to Blackthorne before long. Increasingly, he was anxious at leaving the dragons, even for a day and a night. One day, hunters would attack while he was gone.

  Walking into the Choul, Hirad pulled his furs tight about him. It was a cold night, unseasonably so, and rain had fallen for much of the day. He yearned for a warm inn with roaring fire, ale in one hand, woman in the other. But he couldn’t forget what he owed Sha-Kaan. It seemed, though, that he was the only one.

  The stench of dragon filled his nostrils. Undeniably reptilian, it was layered with wood and oil and a sour taint that he knew was exhaled from huge lungs. It wasn’t a smell you could ignore but it could be endured. Around a sweeping shallow bend, widened by Blackthorne’s men, was a low, domed cavern, big enough for ten dragons. In its centre lay three, and their enormity staggered Hirad no less than it had the first time.

  An initial glance revealed a mass of golden scales, moving with indrawn breaths and glittering faintly in the lantern light. A second glance, along with a boosting of the lantern wick, revealed three Kaan dragons. Nos- and Hyn-Kaan lay to either flank, tails coiled, necks laid inwards, bodies dwarfing Hirad as he watched, wings furled tight, claws skittering against the rough floor, tiny movements giving great comfort.

  And in their midst, fully a quarter and more their size again, lay Sha-Kaan, Great Kaan of his Brood, exiled by choice to save two dimensions. His head lifted as Hirad entered the Choul and his one-hundred-and-twenty-foot body rippled along its ageing, dulling golden length. Hirad walked to the Great Kaan, standing before the mouth that could swallow him whole.

  ‘I trust you enjoyed your meal, Hirad Coldheart,’ rumbled Sha-Kaan, voice sounding only in Hirad’s head.

  ‘Yes, thank you, it was an unexpected feast,’ replied the barbarian, recalling the sheep Sha-Kaan had deposited outside his hut, undamaged but for a neatly broken neck.

  ‘When we can, we provide,’ said Sha-Kaan.

  ‘Though the farmer might right rue the fact you chose his flock.’ Hirad smiled.

  ‘Surely a small price for our continuing sacrifice.’ Sha-Kaan did not share Hirad’s humour.

  The barbarian’s smile faded and his heart beat a flurry as unsettling thoughts crowded his head for an instant. He stared deep into Sha-Kaan’s eyes and saw in them an intense sadness, like grief at a loss; the kind of enduring emptiness The Unknown spoke of when his link with the Protectors was severed.

  ‘What’s wrong, Great Kaan?’

  Sha-Kaan blinked slowly and breathed in, Hirad feeling the air flow past him.

  ‘This place ages us,’ he said. ‘It dampens our fire, dries our wings and starves our minds. The Brood psyche cannot sustain what it cannot touch. You have done everything you can, Hirad, and our gratitude will not fade. But our eyes dim, our scales dull and our muscles protest our every movement. Your dimension drains us.’

  A chill stole down Hirad’s neck and spread through his body.

  ‘You’re dying?’ he ventured.

  Sha-Kaan’s startling blue eyes reflected the lantern light as he stared.

  ‘We need to go home, Hirad Coldheart. Soon.’

  Hirad bit his lip and strode from the Choul, his anger brimming, his frustration complete. There would have to be action.

  In the warming early morning, following a breakfast of fruits, milk and rye bread, Lyanna played in the orchard, skipping around trees and singing to herself, engrossed in a game the rules of which Erienne couldn’t fathom as she watched from a bench.

  The night had been quiet and peaceful. Lyanna hadn’t woken and as a result, had risen refreshed and full of energy. Erienne was glad, knowing she’d need it all and more. This was the calm soon to be shattered and Erienne felt a dreadful anxiety grip her as she watched her little girl play. Her innocence, her essential childishnes
s, her carefree spirit, all were about to be deluged by an overwhelming need to unlock and then control the power within her.

  And last night, as she had sat alone in the dining room, sipping at her wine and thinking, she had reached an inescapable truth. Lyanna was to be changed forever and it didn’t take a great leap of understanding to realise that the risk of this change was mortal. If for any reason her teaching went astray, Lyanna would die.

  ‘Come here, my sweet.’ Erienne held out her arms, the desire to hug her child so strong it hurt. Lyanna trotted over and Erienne crushed her in an embrace she never wanted to release. But all too soon, Lyanna struggled and Erienne allowed her to pull away.

  ‘You promise me you’ll be good and listen to your teachers?’ she asked, stroking Lyanna’s hair.

  Lyanna nodded. ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  ‘And you’ll try to do everything they ask?’

  Another nod.

  ‘It’s important, you know. And I’ll be here if you need me.’ She looked into Lyanna’s eyes. All the Dordovan training had been taken in her stride, accepted like learning to use knife, fork and spoon. This could be the same but somehow Erienne didn’t think so. ‘Gods, I wonder if you have any real idea what’s happening?’ she breathed.

  ‘Of course I do, Mummy,’ said Lyanna. Erienne laughed.

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. Of course you do. Tell me, then.’

  ‘The teachers will help me chase away the bad things. And then they will open the other magic doors and then show me how to hold the wind in my head.’

  Erienne gasped. Her heart lurched. She was too young, surely, to have any concept. Erienne had anticipated rote learning. It seemed she was wrong.

  ‘How do you know all that?’

  ‘They told me,’ said Lyanna. ‘They told me last night.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘While I was sleeping.’

  ‘Oh, did they?’ Erienne felt a sour taste in her mouth and a quickening of her pulse.

  The door to the orchard opened and Cleress stepped outside, a broad smile on her face. Gone was the tottering of the night before, replaced by an almost youthful stride.

  ‘Is she ready?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘Well, apparently you know more about that than I do,’ said Erienne sharply.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Next time you wish to invade my child’s mind while she sleeps, you will have the decency to ask me first, is that clear?’

  Cleress’ smile was brittle. ‘We must prepare her, and there are many things she will not accept awake that her subconscious mind will.’

  ‘Cleress, you aren’t listening.’ Erienne stood up, putting Lyanna down and holding her close. ‘I didn’t say, don’t do it. Gods, I brought her here because I believe you know exactly what you are doing. I merely want you to check with me first. No one understands Lyanna like I do. Sometimes she needs her solitude.’

  ‘Very well.’ Cleress scowled.

  ‘She’s my daughter, Cleress. Don’t any of you forget that.’

  ‘I understand.’ She nodded at last. ‘We’ve been alone a long time.’

  ‘Let’s just get started, shall we?’

  Chapter 6

  Denser had no trouble gaining access to the Dordovan College library despite it being after dark, when the grounds were closed to all but College mages and staff. Indeed, on The Raven’s arrival in the city the previous day, Vuldaroq had been anxious to help them in their investigations and offer any information available. He had even welcomed Denser and Ilkar’s suggestion that they read the Tinjata Prophecy but had extended his official invitation to Denser alone.

  Denser was, of course, extremely suspicious. But, with The Unknown and Ilkar out combing the streets for contacts and anything the Dordovans had missed, there was nothing for him to do but read and hope it became apparent why Vuldaroq had been so accommodating.

  The original Tinjata Prophecy was kept under airtight glass in another part of the College. What Denser’s assigned archivist produced for him was a large leather-bound volume, light brown and titled in embossed gold leaf. It contained upwards of sixty thick parchment pages, the left-hand pages being a transcript of the original lore, the right, a translation, which was incomplete.

  Denser had asked why there were blanks in apparently random places, to be told that those parts of the lore were for the eyes of lore scribes only. He had frowned, curiosity aroused, and read what he could.

  The early pages turned out to be a rambling account of the dangers of inter-College sexual union, the threat to Balaia of a return of the One Way of magic, and the importance of identifying and retarding the development of any such mage identified.

  Denser raised his eyebrows. It seemed that Dordovan thinking hadn’t advanced too far on this subject in the intervening millennia.

  He read on, past some blank and fractured passages of translation, the prophecy moving to encompass the likely results of ignoring the threat or of failing to control the developing mage. Denser’s heart began to beat faster, his mouth drying. Balaia had already been struck by tidal wave, hurricane and days of unbroken thunderclouds and here they were, all laid out. It was hard to believe it was a prophecy, not a diary because, not only did Tinjata foresee the weather systems, he also knew where they would strike.

  ‘ “The sea will rise and smite the mouth of the land.” ’ It didn’t take a genius to deduce that Tinjata had meant Sunara’s Teeth. ‘ “The sun shall hide its face and the sky’s smears will grow thick and deliver floods upon the earth. And when the gods sigh, the tall will be stunted where they felt most secure and the proud will be laid low, their stone temples the graves of their families.” ’

  And further on, Denser shivered at what might be to come. ‘ “The beasts from below shall rise to gorge themselves and the mountains will crumble, their dust seen by none, for the eyes of the world will be blinded, awaiting the new light of the One. It shall be the light of hell on the face of the land.” ’

  ‘Dear Gods.’ He looked up and found the archivist looking at him. ‘It really is happening, isn’t it?’ The mage nodded. ‘Is there more?’

  ‘It’s worth you reading,’ said the archivist. ‘It might help you understand our fears more fully.’

  Denser blew out his cheeks. ‘I already understand. I just don’t agree with your methods. This is my daughter we’re talking about.’

  ‘What can I say?’ The archivist shrugged.

  ‘You could say, “can I get you some coffee and a sandwich”.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment but don’t leave the library. There are still those who are very bitter about what happened the last time you were in our Tower.’

  The archivist bowed slightly and walked away, Denser hearing the door shut gently. It wasn’t so much Denser they were bitter about, he assumed, more his Familiar who had, at his bidding, killed a Dordovan mage in a room high up in the Tower. He had never felt any sympathy for the man - his had been a stupid action in capturing the mind-melded demon in the first place - but he had regretted the necessity of his death nonetheless. Dawnthief and the salvation of Balaia had been at stake and there was nothing that couldn’t be sacrificed.

  Denser turned his attention back to the prophecy, flicking on, the pages creaking against their bindings. He frowned, looking again at one of the partially blank pages. There was something not right about the parchment. He brought the lantern closer and looked, smoothing down the opposite pages. They were different colours, the translated paler than the transcript. And the clinching evidence was there in the spine and the bindings. He quickly checked all the blank and part blank pages, six of them. There could be no doubt. They were newer.

  He really had no choice. With his heart thumping in his chest, and his ears straining for any sound of the returning archivist, Denser drew a dagger and slit the untranslated pages from the volume, folding them hurriedly and stuffing them inside his shirt. He resheathed his dagger and turned to an undamaged spread as the door ope
ned.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as a tray containing coffee and bread were placed on the table. He poured a mug with a slightly quivering hand. That had been a little close.

  ‘Anything you need help with?’ asked the archivist.

  ‘No,’ said Denser, smiling. ‘I’m all but done. Just a few more passages.’

  The Dordovan moved away. Denser leaned back and watched him, blowing on his coffee and taking a sip. It wasn’t too hot and he gulped down half the mug. He took a bite out of the cold meat sandwich. The archivist disappeared behind a shelf and Denser took his chance, closing the volume and snapping the clasps into place. To him, it looked so obvious that pages were missing; to one who wasn’t looking, there probably wasn’t anything to arouse suspicion. Probably.

  Deciding not to take the risk, Denser drained his coffee, grabbed another mouthful of sandwich and stood up, chair scraping slightly on the smooth wood floor and picked up the book. Heading back to the shelf where he thought the prophecy sat, he was intercepted by the archivist.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it.’ He held out his hands.

  ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘I insist.’

  Denser smiled as generously as he could muster. ‘Thank you.’ He followed the Dordovan to the gap in the eight-row-high shelves. The man raised the book to slide it home and paused, a slight frown on his face. He hefted it, feeling its weight. Denser held his breath. It could only have been a heartbeat but it felt a lifetime before the archivist shrugged and replaced it, turning to see Denser’s renewed smile.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.

  ‘My pleasure.’ The frown hadn’t quite disappeared from his face. ‘Take the food on your way out. The guard will see you to the gate.’

  Denser proffered a hand, which the Dordovan shook.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Denser. ‘Let’s hope this ends well for all of us.’

  ‘I can second that.’ At last a smile.