“You can't help by confronting her,” said Denser.
“And what would you know?” shouted Talan. “Is it your friends dying in front of your eyes? I don't think so. The Raven has been taken down for the first time and it could get even worse. She has to understand the consequences—”
“She knows.” Ilkar's voice was dark with fatigue. “We have to trust that her mage instincts will override her grief before it is too late. We've done all we can.” He breathed in, a ragged sound full of pain. “Please, no more noise. This is hard enough already.”
“We could all do with some food, I'm sure,” said Denser. “The kitchen's—”
“I know where it is.” Jandyr went in search of sustenance, partly in response to Denser's request but mainly to get out of the room. The intensity of hurt, of grief and of loss was all but tangible. He found it oppressive. Closing the door on it, he could breathe freely again. He stepped past two bodies and made his way to the range.
Ilkar probed with his mind and fingers, allowing the mana to ease from him in life-sustaining pulses. Isman's sword had driven deep, lacerating and severing Hirad's intestines in half a dozen places. Its point had nicked his spine but there was no other damage to his back. The main worry stemmed from the upward trajectory of the thrust, taking the blade through the barbarian's stomach. His digestive system was in total collapse, his multiple internal cuts needed constant attention and Ilkar was just waiting for his kidneys to fail.
A WarmHeal wouldn't be enough—two or three, carefully targeted, might do the job but he wasn't sure Hirad had that much time. The simple fact was that Hirad needed a BodyCast and Ilkar knew of only three mages who could cast it in reasonable safety. None of them was in this castle.
With Hirad tended for the moment, Ilkar turned his mind on himself. He could feel the mana pulse and drip from Denser's hands. Over his chest, the gentle flow had stopped the bleeding in his lung, relieving his breathing, while from the base of his neck, pulse after pulse of mana fled down his veins to caress his most damaged internal organs.
Ilkar sent a prayer of thanks that in this one way at least, the Colleges would forever be united—every mage had the ability to use tiny amounts of mana to maintain a body in whatever condition it was found and indeed were morally bound to do so. Nevertheless, Ilkar had still found Denser's actions surprising. Perhaps he shouldn't have.
Time crawled. Ilkar was dimly aware of strong daylight edging around the heavy drapes, and of being fed soup. But as the hours wore on, Hirad required more and more of his concentration and the world beyond faded.
He was tiring, he knew that. It was evident in the return of pain in his back, arms and legs. Denser couldn't cover it all. His mana remained where it would keep Ilkar alive. But the Julatsan's mana reserves were stretched, and as they became ever more so, he demanded yet greater input from Denser.
There would come a point when neither of them could suppress the pain in their own bodies as their mana was all directed elsewhere. Then, the end would be near. Then, Erienne would have to help, or he and Hirad would die.
Styliann relaxed, smiling to himself as he recovered from the communion. He pictured Selyn in his mind, saw her body arching with pleasure, all but felt the caress of her lips and the gentle touch of her hands. Her return would signal a change. He needed a son.
But for now, she travelled deep in Wesmen-held lands toward Parve and the almost certain confirmation of the fear the four Colleges had harboured ever since the Wytch Lords’ banishment. A return. And a return to a power greater than before, harder to stop and impossible to vanquish. That is, without Dawnthief. Because the Colleges were no longer as strong and their armies no longer as big. Without the spell, everything would be lost.
Concealing herself during the daytime and flying on ShadowWings for parts of the night, Selyn was making swift and safe progress toward the edge of the Torn Wastes. She would reach its boundaries in three days, Parve itself in four. He could expect his next communion with her in five. It was going to be a hard time. This was danger like she had never faced before. And he would see to it that she never had to face it again.
His mind wandered and he glanced out of his study window, tracing the outlines of Nyer's and Laryon's Towers. Nyer's man had breached Septern's workshop but had not held communion with his Master since then. Apparently. Styliann felt he was not being fed all the information. That irritated him a great deal.
He smiled again. Everyone trusted Laryon. The worker, the genius, the friend. Perhaps it was time to take the new member of the circle a little closer in. Styliann couldn't track Nyer's moves or question him further without arousing suspicion. Laryon, on the other hand, would have no such problem. Styliann reached out his hand and pulled the bell chain by the fire. The wine he ordered would come with two glasses.
Time had become an irrelevant quantity for Ilkar long before Hirad's kidneys finally failed. They went one after the other in quick succession, forcing the Julatsan to abandon all remaining sedation of his own body as his fight to save Hirad reached its last desperate stage.
“Denser,” he mumbled.
“I know,” said Denser.
“Where is she?”
“She's coming. Hang on.” Denser pulsed mana through Ilkar's bruised back, the sense of relief serving only to heighten his awareness of his pain.
And so it had come to this. Hirad was dying, fading fast. Ilkar took everything he had and fed it into the barbarian's failing body. He was forced to ignore one kidney, letting it bleed and drain as he concentrated on the other. And all the time, his own cracked, bruised and aching body yelled for relief. His broken right arm sent waves of nausea through his head, his lower back seared as if it were atop a fire and his legs felt as though hammers pounded them up and down their length.
But it was a relief he was unable to grant himself—unless he let Hirad die. Nor could he ask it of Denser. The Xeteskian was already keeping him alive with almost his entire mana stream. Ilkar couldn't fail to note the gasping breaths Denser was taking with increasing regularity. It was clear he had been less than honest with his assessment of his own injuries.
“How long, Ilkar?”
“Me or him?” Ilkar gritted.
“Isn't it one and the same thing?” Denser's voice was appallingly tired.
“Not quite. He's got less than an hour. It's his kidneys.” And then, so suddenly that Ilkar had to think to maintain his flow to the barbarian, a new, strong anaesthetising warmth moved through him and he knew she had come. The warmth travelled on into Hirad, following his mana trails.
“You're being generous.” A woman's voice sounded very close to his ear. “He has little more than half an hour. You are unaware of the gravity of your own state.”
As suddenly as it had come, the warmth was gone and pain engulfed Ilkar once more.
“Well?” asked Denser.
“It can be done.” The woman's voice again.
“Both of them?”
“If you can hold on to the Julatsan. If that's what you want.”
“That's what I want.”
“There will be a price.”
“I understand.”
“I hope that you do.”
Ilkar shook his head. A price between a Dordovan and a Xeteskian. Still. As Denser had said earlier, there was a wider purpose. The warmth returned, tracing into Hirad's body.
“Release him to me, Ilkar,” said Erienne.
“I—”
“You must,” she urged. “Or Denser may not be able to save you.”
Ilkar knew she was right. With one last pulse, he withdrew from Hirad, taking his hands from the barbarian's stomach and focusing inside at the ruins of his own body.
He shut off the pain, feeling Denser put a hand on his forehead. Slowly, the world dimmed to peace and he was adrift.
Erienne scanned Hirad's body and sighed. She should let the man die. In front of her was one of the reasons her sons were dead. The leader of The Raven. It would be fitting for him to die too.
It would redress the balance just a little.
But Denser had seen into her when he had asked for her help. Knew she would be too fascinated by the prospect of Dawnthief to refuse him. And knew she could not refuse her calling. But her healer's code did not stop her striking bargains for the lives of those she was asked to save. And this time, the bargain might just give her a reason to carry on herself. Same goal, new subject, and Denser's seed would be ideal. It would, of course, be all for nothing should Hirad and Ilkar die. She bent her mind to the immediate problem. For Hirad, a BodyCast was his only hope. It would take more than twenty minutes to prepare. As she began, she prayed he would last that long.
From the well of his agony, Hirad fought to rise. Somewhere, far above, the heat was calling him. He didn't realise he'd fallen so deep and he didn't think he could climb back. Try, Hirad, try. A voice penetrated his unconscious. A woman. He tried.
The next thing that assaulted Ilkar's senses was a smell, cloying, with a sweet aftertaste. Pipe smoke.
He was lying down, still in the big room, and the view afforded him when he opened his eyes revealed nothing but a ceiling lit by bright sunlight. It was a fuzzy view and he lay listening to the quiet while his eyes found their focus. Erienne had saved him. He was tired, dull aches flagging his more serious injuries, but he knew he was no longer in any danger. It was a good feeling.
He pushed himself up on his elbows and there was Denser. The Xeteskian sat on a chair with his feet on a table, legs outstretched. His face, what Ilkar could see of it, still bore the scars of his beating but, dressed in his familiar black and with his skull cap in his lap, he looked pretty much like the old Denser. His pipe smoked gently in his mouth, a steaming mug sat on the table by him and the cat lay on his thighs, curled and asleep.
“Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be pleased to see a Xeteskian.”
Denser laughed, and his movement woke the cat, who yawned, stretched and leapt to the ground. The mage took his feet from the table and ambled over to Ilkar.
“And good morning to you, Ilkar. Or should I say good mornings?”
“I don't know, should you?”
“There have been two so far.”
“Hirad?”
Denser smiled. “See for yourself.” He indicated to Ilkar's left before returning to the table to swap his pipe for his mug.
Ilkar looked where Denser indicated and for a brief, dreadful moment knew that Hirad was dead. But then his chest rose and fell, gently and smoothly. It was a quite wonderful sight. Hirad was lying, like Ilkar, on firm bedding, his head propped on a pillow and his body covered to his bare chest with blankets. A mound around his midriff told of heavy bandaging beneath. He looked pale, but that hardly mattered. Ilkar's heart flared with joy and tears came unbidden to his eyes. He wiped them away.
“Uh—” he began.
“You are allowed to get up,” said Denser. “Come and have a mug of coffee.”
Ilkar nodded and moved slowly to a sitting position, holding himself as the blood rush hit his head, threatening to knock him down.
“Are you all right?” asked Denser.
“I think,” said Ilkar, “that I'll take that drink sitting here.”
Denser chuckled and ambled over to the kitchen door. He leaned through it.
“Talan? Stop chopping and bring a coffee through. There's someone you'd like to talk to.”
There was the clatter of a knife on a hard surface, a few footsteps and then Talan loped in, spilling coffee as he came.
“Ilkar!” He practically threw the mug into the elf's hands. “You don't know how good you look!”
“Steady,” grinned Ilkar. “Thanks for this. How's everything?”
Talan became solemn. “I conducted Richmond's Vigil alone. He's buried in the garden near the stables.”
Ilkar nodded, sipped from his mug. “I'm sorry.”
“So am I.”
“And what about him?” Ilkar inclined his head in Hirad's direction.
Talan sat on the bed next to him. “I've got to tell you, it was amazing,” he said, brightening a little. “The woman, Erienne, she's sleeping I think. Denser said she used a BodyCast, is it?” Ilkar nodded. “All over him. I could feel it, a deep warmth. It shifted as she moved her hands, it went in his mouth, his ears, his nose…she was with him for hours.”
Ilkar nodded again, glanced up at Denser.
“BodyCast, eh?”
“Textbook preparation. She's good, Ilkar. Powerful. From what Thraun said, she used an IceWind too.” Denser raised his eyebrows, drained his mug and wandered into the kitchen for a refill.
Talan leaned in closer. “And he now commands my complete admiration.”
“Oh?” Ilkar bridled in spite of himself; an inbred reaction.
“Erienne rested after the BodyCast. Then she used another spell to finish the job and make Hirad sleep. Then she rested again before seeing to Denser. Two days in all. He just sat there and kept you alive. Said hardly anything. Just ate a little, drank a little.”
“I appreciate the sacrifice he had to make,” said Ilkar, yet he had been unaware of the extent of Denser's effort and was reeling inside.
“They'd broken his jaw, fractured his cheeks, smashed his nose, broken most of his fingers and toes and cracked half a dozen ribs. He must have been in total agony the whole time. You owe him.” Talan shook his head. Ilkar gaped. The door opened and Denser walked back in. He smiled, and it was then that Ilkar noticed the cat at his feet.
“It is a debt I will never call in,” said Denser. “It is merely what had to be done.”
“Whatever you say,” said Ilkar. “I'm lost for words of thanks.”
“You are alive and talking, Julatsan, that is thanks enough.” Embarrassed, Denser stalked to the other doors, heading for the hallway, his cat in close attendance.
Later that day, standing one to either side of him, Ilkar and Talan helped Hirad to his feet. The barbarian was ready for the pain and nausea that swept his body as the newly knit muscles of his stomach strained and protested. Another WarmHeal, Erienne said, and he'd be fit to ride tomorrow—three days after he'd entered the castle on the crest of a Rage.
He gazed down at Richmond's grave. The Raven symbol still scorched proud on the packed earth. His feelings were mixed but dominated by one of inevitability. Ras, Sirendor, The Unknown, Richmond. Had The Raven died with them? Only he, Talan and Ilkar were left and he questioned whether that was enough. He decided that while any of the founder members lived, it was. They had always expected to evolve as men died, or left, and others joined. It was an insult to the memories of those who had gone to let The Raven pass into history.
But who would be next to die? Clearly, it should have been him, and the stories of his salvation by the three mages had turned his view of their whole order in general and Denser in particular. He still didn't trust the man further than he could spit, but he had to admire his fortitude and sheer determination. Denser also had his gratitude—so did Erienne, but she wouldn't catch his eye, far less speak to him.
He looked across at her, kneeling, as through almost her every waking hour since their burials, at the graves of her family. That of Alun, Erienne ignored, but those of her sons commanded her unswerving attention. He felt for her but knew he could never articulate how, because she would not listen.
And here, standing by him, was the man for whom no level of admiration could ever be enough. Ilkar would have died with him—indeed, had chosen to do so, had Erienne not healed them both. Loyalty in battle he could readily understand but this was something more. He felt a lump in his throat, swallowed it away and crushed Ilkar to him with the arm slung round the mage's shoulder for support.
“We all set?”
Ilkar nodded. “We've enough fit horses, including all of our own, the bodies are all destroyed and Will has rigged the castle. He's a clever bastard, I'll give him that.”
“Very effective,” agreed Talan.
Will, in response to Hirad's d
esire to see the castle razed to the ground, had devised a way of doing so while allowing them to be half a day's ride away when it happened.
“Better your enemies are attracted to the beacon when you're not there,” he'd said.
And now, all but the kitchens and banqueting room, where they'd spent so much time, were no-go areas. Oil soaked drapes, rugs, furnishings, books and timbers. Lines of oil crisscrossed the castle from top to bottom, piles of wood and kindling were placed in strategic areas and, where Will wanted flash flame—in the towers and the entrance hall—mountains of dry flour sat awaiting ignition.
All but Hirad and Erienne had worked to his direction while he had either patrolled the castle, ensuring all was laid to his exact specification, or sat laboriously testing myriad styles of long-burn fuse. Rope, oil and tar were mixed in minutely changing quantities then set alight to be timed for their burn by the beating of Will's heart. At last, satisfied, he had manufactured yards of a material about as thick as his thumb and placed one upstairs and one down.
“All that's left is to saddle up and pack the horses and prime the last couple of rooms tomorrow morning. Will and Thraun will light the fuses and then we're away.”
“Good. I know Denser's anxious about the time we've lost,” said Hirad.
“He's not the only one,” returned Ilkar.
“And how's she reacted to us travelling to Dordover to plunder one of her ancient's tombs?”
Ilkar smiled. “Good question. All I can say is that whatever deal it was they struck, it's important enough to her not to betray us.” He paused, reflecting. “I don't know. She knows a good deal about Dawnthief and she certainly believes Denser.”
“And the others?” said Hirad.
Ilkar shrugged. “They are good-quality people, Hirad. Thraun is a born swordsman. Erienne is a well-known magical talent, Jandyr gives us the bowman we've always wanted, and Will, well, he's quick and clever. They balance the team, Talan and I swore them into the Code and, in your absence, accepted them into The Raven. I know it's not how we really do things but we haven't the time to assess them in any more action and we need to know that they'll follow you without question. I'm confident they will. Talan?”
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