‘You are my guests here and not my captors. As such you will follow the rules of my ship which my first mate will explain to you when we are underway. I will assemble my crew and explain our position. Are there any questions?’
Heads shook all around the table.
‘Then we have a deal.’ He reached out a hand which Hirad, in the absence of The Unknown, shook.
The door to the Captain’s cabin opened, Aeb stooped his huge frame inside.
‘There is a man asking for you, General Darrick. One of your cavalry.’
Darrick rose quickly. ‘I’ll see to it. Denser, I think you’d better get the Protectors off the deck to let this ship get away.’
‘Yes, I suppose I’d better,’ said Denser.
The Raven followed Darrick out of the cabin, along a short corridor, up a flight of slatted wooden steps and on to the deck. Half a dozen riders stood under the light of a pair of torches. Hirad recognised Izack at their head.
‘Commander Izack,’ said Darrick, standing by the rail. ‘Is this the arresting party?’
Izack chuckled. ‘No, sir, it most certainly isn’t. We’ve brought The Raven’s weapons and armour and have come to offer our services.’
‘The first, I will accept with gratitude, the second, I must refuse though I am touched by your loyalty.’ He held up a hand as Izack made to say something more. ‘Izack, you’re a fine soldier and a good friend and it’s because of both of those qualities that I don’t want you mixed up in this, tempting though it is to have a man of such stature by me.
‘I have committed a crime against Lystern, though I know you and I don’t see it that way. I’m on the run and Lystern will need good men like you to shore up her defences.’
‘Defences?’ asked Izack.
‘There will be trouble between the Colleges, Izack. Whoever gains the child, there will be trouble. I have made my choice and I’ll be fighting my battle in the Ornouth Archipelago. You must go home and start to prepare. Make Heryst listen. He’s a good man if misguided at times and the Dordovans cannot be trusted as he thought. What do you say?’
‘If you ask it, General, I will do it.’
‘Thank you, Izack.’ Darrick relaxed a little and leaned on the rail. ‘Take care of yourself. Lystern will need you in the times to come.’
Izack nodded. ‘What will I do when they ask me about your actions here tonight?’
‘Tell them the truth.’ Darrick straightened again. ‘Good luck, Izack. We’ll meet again.’
‘I hope so, sir. Good luck to you.’
He wheeled his horse and led his men away, leaving a tied bundle on the dock. Hirad could see the hilt of The Unknown’s two-handed sword protruding from it and prayed he’d hear the point tapping its rhythm again.
All pretence at maintaining the shield had long since gone and Ephemere knew that their enemies would be coming. It was just a question of whether help came sooner. Like a volcanic eruption, and just as obvious to a watching mage, the tortured mana surged from Lyanna’s mind. The devastation it caused worsened by the hour.
When they weren’t with Lyanna, and only one of them could be at a time now, the drain was so great, they slept, or ate the broth that the Guild elves made. They tried to smile, but Ephemere could see the exaggerated care they took with every action and heard the soft lies about how well they were bearing up.
Ephemere sat in the dining room, the pipe of Lemiir in her hand. In an adjacent anteroom, Myriell sat with Lyanna. There was no sense in leaving her in her own bedroom, she couldn’t know the difference in her current state, and it was just that little bit easier for her dying watchers.
The old Al-Drechar’s face cracked into a vague smile as she drew deeply on the pipe, feeling the herbal smoke smooth the edges off the pain she experienced every waking moment. So many hours they’d spent here, the four of them, arguing, talking, chiding and hoping. It was only now she realised how happy those times had been.
The smile faded. It had been five days since she had passed more than a few words of encouragement to Aviana on her way out and wished restful sleep to Myriell on her way in to Lyanna. She hadn’t seen Cleress at all in that time. And with every passing day, they got weaker and weaker and Lyanna’s Night showed no signs of passing.
The only encouragement they could draw was that it had moved to another stage but even that development meant more misery. Where Lyanna’s mind’s random usage of her enormous talent would have previously brought such trouble to her homeland of Balaia, now that net had widened and encompassed Herendeneth too. It showed greater understanding and a modicum more control and direction by the child’s unconscious, but its result was a battering of the whole archipelago under what was often a clear blue sky.
No longer were the winds irritated spats delivered by Lyanna as she dreamed; now the lightning crackled and fell to earth in an endless stream; the waves pounded the shores and swept up to within scant yards of the house; the wind thundered ceaselessly at shutters, windows and walls and, when the clouds did roll across, the rain was incredibly heavy, washing off the higher ground in rivers and pouring through the house on its way back to the sea.
The smells of damp wood, ruined rugs and soaking timbers were constant reminders of the mastery of the elements over the Al-Drechar’s domain. Ephemere sighed. How naïve they had been. Hundreds of years old yet they had still fallen into the trap of overestimating their own abilities and, worse, underestimating the destructive power of Lyanna’s untrained but awakened mind. Her only consolation was that, even had they known, there was little they could have done, but at least they would have begun a little better prepared.
And that would have made dying more comfortable.
The ancient elf took one more draw on the pipe and set it down on its stand, where it would be refilled and lit for Myriell in a few moments. She opened her eyes, not having remembered exactly when she closed them and saw two Guild elves standing to her left, waiting. With a pang of sorrow, she realised she couldn’t remember their names and could only nod to indicate it was time.
The young elf males eased her chair back and with one to each arm, helped her to her feet. With agonised slowness, she dragged one foot in front of the other, determined not to let them carry her as they already had Aviana on three occasions. It was stupid, she knew, but sometimes the petty competitiveness was all that kept her going.
One of the elves opened the door to the makeshift bedroom and they moved into the gentle lantern light. To the left, the curtained window was open a crack on to a sheltered corner and though the wind buffeted the island, only a fresh breeze wafted into the room. Soon it would be light but the curtains would remain closed. It was better for concentration that way.
Lyanna lay on her back on the bed they’d brought in for her. She hadn’t opened her eyes for six days now, subsiding not long after Erienne went to find Denser and The Raven. Her favourite doll and a glass of water lay on a table at her bedside, symbols of hope and belief that she would come through her Night. But they’d changed the untouched water time and again and the doll was gathering dust.
The elves helped Ephemere to the bed and she sat on its edge, leaning forward to smooth Lyanna’s hair. Her face was cool and dry at the moment but another of the convulsions, when her whole body was wracked with spasms, tormented by phantoms the Al-Drechar could do nothing to diminish, would not be far away.
The Guild elves were tireless. Bathing her daily, changing soiled sheets, feeding her soup through her unconsciousness, encouraging her swallow reflex by stroking her neck.
‘Poor child,’ whispered Ephemere. She kissed Lyanna’s forehead and indicated she wanted to move.
She was helped to a two-seater sofa and sat beside Myriell, indicating the elves could withdraw. She heard the soft click as the door closed, steeled herself for a moment and uttered a prayer that she would survive to feel the touch of Aviana’s mind when her sister came to relieve her. For now, it was she who would relieve Myriell. She tuned herself
to the mana spectrum and faced the tempest.
As she dived towards Lyanna’s mind and the shield that Myriell maintained around it, the gales outside became as puffs of air on her cheek in comparison. It made the rain and thunder seem like distant, comforting echoes and it made the power of the lightning like the flicker of a single, guttering candle.
Ephemere imagined her face stretched taut by the force of the mana storm, her hair straight behind her and tears forced from her eyes. Directionless but focused, the streams entwined and whipped by, like an endless, white-striated tunnel of deep dark brown, shot through with flashes of yellow, orange, green and black-tinged blue, with Ephemere falling towards its core.
But she wasn’t entirely helpless. The tunnel had a light, dim but pulsing. Myriell’s mind. Ephemere fought to reach it, pushing a bulb of protective mana in front of her, deflecting the roaring, howling Night Child magic from destroying her as she went.
She craved the warmth of contact and it drove her on until she found it, melding seamlessly with her sister and feeling the joy of touch reciprocated. Ephemere could sense the exhaustion in Myriell but, stronger than that, the determination not to fail Lyanna. She moved her consciousness to take some of the strain from Myriell, breathing hard as the mind shield placed around Lyanna bucked and threatened to tear itself apart. She imposed her will, driving energy into the mana shape until it stabilised. Only then did she turn any attention to her sister.
‘I am here, Myra,’ she said.
‘I thought you’d never come,’ answered Myriell.
‘Go and sleep now.’
‘Be careful, Ephy. It isn’t getting any easier.’
‘I know, Myra,’ said Ephemere. ‘I know.’
‘I love you, Ephy,’ said Myriell as she began to disengage.
‘Always,’ said Ephemere.
And Myriell was gone and the isolation clamped down on Ephemere, sending her heart into palpitations and leaving her momentarily short of breath. Beneath the delicate mind shield, Lyanna cried out in pain, her thoughts confused and scared.
For all that Ephemere felt alone, for Lyanna it was far, far worse. Such a small child and now separated not just from her mother, but from her senses too, living in a pitch black world of night where uncontained mana battered ceaselessly at her fragile mind.
Lyanna’s mind was like a magnet, dragging in magical essence in enormous quantities but quite unable to mould it or understand what it was she unleashed. While she lay in her Night, her mind experimented, fought to control what it craved and threw out random mana shapes with staggering power because that control was denied it. For her to survive, she would have to learn.
For Ephemere and all the Al-Drechar, their only focus was to defend her from that which she couldn’t yet control or manipulate. Collapsing shapes posed a great threat as they unravelled and they had to be first deflected from where they might wreak havoc, and then given an outlet. It meant suffering blow after blow of half-formed magic, each one chipping away at the strength of their minds. Any shape fully formed had to be allowed free rein despite the resultant devastation in Balaia and now, Ornouth. But it had to be endured. For the succession of the One, it had to be endured.
Ephemere cried. It happened with the beginning of every shift. She felt Lyanna’s moans as they modulated through the mana, the only human emotion in the elemental tumult she created. She couldn’t respond, couldn’t put her arms around an entity that was not there to embrace and wasn’t there to be comforted.
All she could do was deflect the dangerous magical energy that Lyanna provoked. And with every slamming of a bolt against her shield, she weakened, but with every breath she took, her resolve hardened.
But none of it was why she cried.
She knew she had to suffer whatever the Night Child threw at her but her tears were because she didn’t know if Erienne would return in time.
And if she didn’t, the world was already dead and all her pain would have been wasted.
Erienne was momentarily confused, genuinely refusing to believe her eyes. Though Selik had intimated he was assisted by mages, never in her worst nightmare had she contemplated being before the man who had walked through her cabin door. She shook her head, shuddering at what it all meant. This was no rogue Dordovan mage, this was the High Secretary of the College. A man steeped in respect and the ethics of her College. A man she had known all her life and had thought she understood and could trust.
‘Erienne, please don’t judge me too quickly.’
Berian’s words made her feel sick. She was glad she was sitting down or she’d have fallen. Emotions and thoughts crowded her mind. She had no idea how to react or what to say. All she knew was that the revulsion she felt at Berian’s presence, and the magnitude of the betrayal that presence represented, was overwhelming. She swayed and turned her head away.
‘Don’t talk to me,’ she rasped, tasting bile in her mouth. ‘Don’t even look at me. You revolt me.’
‘Please, Erienne,’ said Berian. ‘We had to find you. We worry for you and Lyanna.’
‘How dare you lie to me!’ Erienne’s eyes blazed, her rage growing. ‘You’re standing next to the murderer of my children. Dordovan children. How could you!’
Berian gave Selik a sideways glance. ‘But they knew where to find you again,’ he said gently. ‘And we would see you come to no further harm.’
‘Liar!’ Erienne flew across the cabin, landing one punch on Berian’s face before Selik dragged her away and threw her back on the bed.
‘Calm yourself,’ he drawled.
‘Calm?’ she screamed. ‘Great Gods burning, I’ve delivered myself and my child to hell.’ She jabbed a finger at Berian. ‘And you, you bastard betrayer. You’re dead. I swear it. You’ve betrayed everything and joined with Witch Hunters to find your own and kill them.’
She slumped, her head dropping to her chest, her rage extinguished. Helplessness swept through her and tears fell down her cheeks. Everything she’d believed in was in ashes at her feet.
‘How could you?’ she whispered.
‘Because your daughter is a danger to Balaia,’ said Berian, all hint of gentleness gone from his voice. ‘And she is a herald of doom for Dordover. Did you really think we’d stand by and let you bring her to the One uncontested? She must be controlled by Dordover to ensure our College survives. It is you who are the betrayer, Erienne Malanvai. I would save my College. You would see it fall.’
Erienne shook her head. ‘No,’ she managed through her weeping. ‘No, you don’t understand.’
‘Yes, Erienne, I do,’ said Berian. ‘I understand only too well.’
She heard footsteps receding and her door close and lock.
Erienne had never considered the circumstances of her death until now. Never wondered if she’d know it was imminent, what she might say, how she might react, how she might feel. But here it was, only worse. Because she wasn’t dying alone. She was sealing the fate of her daughter at the same time.
She felt detached, looking in from afar. Her life had taken on dual qualities of utter certainty and dreamlike unreality. There were many things she knew. Selik wouldn’t touch her until they reached Herendeneth. The Raven, if they survived, would be chasing her. She’d been betrayed by Dordover. And Berian, of all mages, was travelling with her, helping to organise her death. But her grasp of time seemed vague. She felt the ship move, knew they were in the channel heading down towards the Bay of Arlen, but somehow couldn’t connect it with her reality. None of it should be happening and there were parts of her that still believed that she would come to and find Denser watching over her.
She had tried to cast, of course. It was one way to reconnect herself with everything she knew. But though her faculties were recovering, she hadn’t the stamina to attempt complex shapes and, even if she could, a Dordovan spell shield covered her cabin, leaving her completely cut off.
She poured a goblet of water, walked to the back of her cabin and looked out of the small win
dow. Through the rain, she could see the red smudge in the skies above Arlen, indicating the fires that still raged there. She held on to the window ledge as the ship rolled, water spilling over her hand. The wind was gusting very strong and though making headway, the Ocean Elm was surely under limited sail. She wouldn’t know. Selik wouldn’t let her out on deck.
She sat on the bed, draining the goblet and placing it on her small table. Another roll and it fell to the floor, clinking dully on the timbers. She left it there. Trying to ignore the conditions outside, the rain that drilled into the glass of the window and the wind that washed over them, howling as it came, Erienne set her mind to what, if anything, she could do.
It wasn’t a long list. The most obvious route was magic but she had only just begun to probe the shield placed around her. It was strong, probably the work of three Dordovan betrayers and she had no doubt that it was being monitored closely for signs she was testing its structure. If she found weakness, she’d have to be ready to exploit it immediately.
On the physical plane, there were two escape routes, neither viable. The door to her cabin was kept locked and two guards stood outside it. She hadn’t even considered attacking them despite the fact that they stood inside the spell shield. After all, where would it get her?
The window had been nailed shut and, even if she could force it, the drop to the water would result only in her death from drowning.
Yet suicide was an option she couldn’t ignore. If she died, the Ocean Elm’s crew would no longer have the incentive to complete their journey. But it would only buy the Al-Drechar a little time. With the defences around Herendeneth in terminal decline, the location of the island wouldn’t stay hidden for ever - if indeed it still was - and, despite the treacherous waters, Lyanna would be found eventually.
The ship lurched again and shuddered as it plunged into a wave. She recognised the sideways movement and knew they were approaching the mouth of the Arl. She’d learned enough to understand that the tidal forces in the bay made passage uncomfortable as high or low water approached and, fanned by gale force winds, the waves would be very difficult. She could only imagine what the open sea would be like.
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