Inside the Mount, those few remaining loyal to Styliann would be working on a way to see him safely into the College, knowing that he couldn’t fly in without weakening his mind shield - an almost certainly fatal act. Presumably, they would be negotiating with Dystran and his aides, demanding audience for Styliann in controlled conditions, probably a Cold Room.
For his part, Dystran, because he was a dithering imbecile without the wit to govern, would be hoping in vain for some pre-emptive action from Styliann and his Protectors. Anything that would allow him to unleash magical offence with the blessing of the Xeteskian public. But even then he would have to exercise caution. Any aggression aimed at Styliann would trigger the Protectors and they could do significant damage to Xetesk and the College before they were stopped. All Styliann could do was wait. He wasn’t kept long.
Perhaps an hour after his arrival, and with a cool moonlit night giving Styliann’s quiet camp an eerie hue, the gate tower filled with archers and mages and the gate itself edged slightly ajar. One man stepped out. The gate closed. The archers and mages remained on station. Styliann rose to his feet and walked away from the warmth of his fire to approach the lone man, Cil at his shoulder, the rest of the Protectors bearing mute witness from a short distance.
‘Well, well. Dystran. I am honoured.’ Neither man offered a hand though Styliann had to admit some small respect that the new Lord of the Mount had chosen to meet him personally.
‘What is it that you want, Styliann?’ demanded Dystran, attempting to appear disinterested though the flicker of his eyes betrayed his nervousness.
‘Oh, just a bed for the night. I am but a weary traveller,’ said Styliann, his tone caustic. ‘What in all the hells do you think I want?’
Dystran flinched at Styliann’s sudden ire. ‘I cannot let you back in. The decision has been made. I am Lord of the Mount.’
Styliann’s lips thinned. ‘But I came back, didn’t I? You knew that I would.’
‘Once I knew you were still alive and in the East, yes,’ admitted Dystran.
‘Yes,’ said Styliann. ‘Unfortunate for you, wasn’t it?’
Dystran’s mouth tugged up at the corners. ‘A little.’
Styliann studied his face carefully, letting the silence grow.
‘At the present time you preside over very little,’ said the former Lord of the Mount. ‘An unrestrained rip eats at the sky threatening cataclysmic invasion from another dimension and only I and The Raven have the wit to try and search for an answer. The Wesmen are battering at the gates of Julatsa. They hold Understone and the pass and tens of thousands are poised to sweep towards Korina at will. And what have you and your supporters done in my absence?
‘Rather than conduct research to my instruction or organise serious defence and send soldiers to the battle for Julatsa, you have chosen to further your own personal ends. And how sorry they will look when the dragons are taking the Towers apart, brick by brick.
‘If you were half a man you would see that our dispute has to be set aside until the threats to us all are gone. Right now, I need access to the Library. The destination of the Stewardship is currently unimportant.’
‘The Library? Then you wish to do in Xetesk what we have so far failed to do and what The Raven are trying to do in Julatsa?’
Styliann tensed, his expression hardening. His eyes bored remorselessly into Dystran’s. ‘The Raven have reached Julatsa?’
Dystran nodded. ‘Contrary to your low opinion of our efforts, we are back in contact with Julatsa following the dispersal of their DemonShroud. It coincided with the rather extraordinary arrival of The Raven who apparently then released several thousand prisoners from a city swarming with Wesmen before setting to work on searching the Julatsan Library.’
Styliann laughed aloud, a reaction Dystran clearly wasn’t expecting.
‘Gods falling but they’re good,’ he said. ‘You have to hand it to them.’ The humour dropped from his eyes and face. ‘Tell me, how long have they been in Julatsa?’
‘Since before dawn this morning,’ replied Dystran.
Styliann bit his lip. He would have to hurry or they’d pass through into the dragon dimension without him, something he could not allow. And then the mists cleared in his mind and the answer to his problems was there before him.
‘Let me make you a proposition,’ he said, seeing Dystran frown and make a reflexive move backwards. ‘I think it will be to your advantage.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Naturally.’
Chapter 27
On the walls of Julatsa, the battle raged. Spells swept across the cobbled apron around the College, detonations shook foundations. The ring of metal, the shouts of men and women, the dull thud of catapult, the wash of mana flow as spell barrages ebbed and flowed; all of it filtered down into the Heart where Ilkar sat.
With one ear constantly tuned to the fight outside, and ever ready to react should the quality and atmosphere of the sound change, he flicked through text after text, searching for note, reference and passage discussing Septern’s work.
Nearby, in the Library, Denser and Erienne taxed the librarians and archivists Barras had spared them, hoping for a breakthrough that looked increasingly unlikely as the day progressed to a blustery late afternoon.
And in a chamber as far from the sounds of death and momentary glory as the College confines would allow, Hirad and The Unknown slept. Not that they needed the quiet. Part of the career warrior’s art was the ability to sleep practically behind the front line. Hirad was particularly adept at snatching rest as the blood spattered his face, his innate sense of danger always waking him before his life was threatened. No, they didn’t need the quiet but Ilkar was anxious to see they rested deeply. There were hard times to come.
Ilkar rubbed his eyes and stared gloomily at the mass of books, scrolls and bundled papers he had still to sift through, next to the relatively small pile he had completed. He had known it would be difficult. Complete texts by Septern were rare and that pile of five bound volumes already sat at his right elbow, having been among the first brought to the Heart by Barras when the Wesmen threat grew. But all three Raven mages knew that much of Septern’s wisdom, scribbled down on scraps of parchment, annotated on other texts or sketched on the backs of scrolls, was either lost, hidden or transcribed. All they had was reference, cross-reference and the incomplete knowledge of the archivists. Following another vague lead offered by the preceding parchment, he frowned, sighed and read on.
In Julatsa’s Library, the hours crawled, though the work had a deadline neither could forget. Erienne and Denser’s arrival had, despite Barras’ assurances of good faith and assistance, been greeted with total suspicion by the archivists; three old men and a young student, who stared down their identically long noses and sniffed at every request.
‘It takes a certain sort to organise a library, don’t you find?’ Denser had said soon after they arrived.
‘They could be brothers of those in Dordover,’ Erienne had agreed.
‘One magic, one mage,’ Denser had said, covering her hand with his. Erienne had smiled and placed a hand low down on her stomach, imagining her child moving within her though in truth she could feel nothing.
‘I hope so,’ she had said.
The archivists’ frosty attitude had warmed over the following hours as it became obvious that The Raven’s mages had no intention of pillaging Julatsan secrets. Curt responses, thumped-down books and half-thrown scrolls had given way to slight smiles, words of help and encouragement and, eventually, to direct research assistance.