‘We’ll get it,’ said Ilkar. ‘Kerela is no fool. She can see the bigger picture. I’ll talk to her.’
‘Denser. Styliann?’ invited The Unknown. Denser dragged himself from his slouch and rested his arms on the table.
‘It was not an easy Communion,’ he said. A chuckle ran around the table despite the mood. ‘Styliann is clearly determined to come with us though he hasn’t said as much. He knows we have to have the texts he’s found and says he’ll meet us at Septern Manse to discuss them. We all know what that means.’
‘When is he travelling?’ asked Hirad, only vaguely annoyed at Styliann’s apparent plan. He’d gone way past being surprised at anything he saw or heard. Dawnthief and dragons did that to a man.
‘Tomorrow, same as us. He may even beat us there.’
‘Protectors?’
‘What do you think?’
‘How many?’ Hirad scowled.
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said The Unknown, finality in his tone. ‘Erienne, tell us about the Dordovan situation.’
‘There’s not much that’s new to tell you,’ she said. ‘The Dordovans are marching slowly towards the North Gate and have been joined by a few of the disparate groups of Julatsans hiding out in the wilds. I took the liberty of telling Pheone of our need to break out and she will pass that information on to the Dordovan commander. However, their first duty is the liberation of Julatsa. That’s it, really.’
‘Did she give you any indication of Dordovan attacking intent?’ asked Hirad.
Erienne frowned. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘Are they planning a broad attack front or a spear formation to drive a breakthrough?’
‘She didn’t say,’ said Erienne. ‘I seriously doubt she knows.’
‘It’s of no real matter,’ said The Unknown. ‘We know our task in either instance. Right. Rest. Hirad, come on, let’s loosen up and look in on Thraun. He needs to be ready at first light.’
Styliann sat with Dystran in the Tower of the Lord of the Mount, dismayed at the clutter the young mage had accumulated in just a few days. Order was everything. One day, Dystran might learn that. On the other hand, the time for his education may already have passed.
Styliann sipped from his Blackthorne red, not a classic vintage but sound enough, and took in the study. Dystran sat opposite him across the fire which burned low, its warmth already in the stone. Behind the new lord, two warriors and two mages sized Styliann up with open distrust while he had but Cil for a guard. Even so, he considered he held a considerable advantage.
‘So, what is your answer?’ asked Styliann, placing his empty glass in the hearth and feeling the fire warm his arm.
‘Your proposal is, frankly, unbelievable,’ said Dystran. ‘And since you refuse to submit to a TruthTell, I am sceptical of its veracity.’
‘Come, Dystran, my refusal to take TruthTell has its reasons entirely elsewhere as you well know. I am offering you everything you desire for a single sheaf of papers we both know must reach The Raven for any of us to survive.’
‘But you also demand the Protector army,’ said Dystran.
‘And for that one reason alone. Protection. In case it had escaped your attention, the Wesmen have invaded in large numbers and I must reach the Manse safely. You will be free to perform the Act of Renunciation within seven days and then they will be yours once more. Mine is a simple request and remember, when I leave the College, it is in your power to prevent me from ever returning.’
‘And you are promising no challenge to my Stewardship?’ Dystran shook his head in disbelief.
‘Correct. I will sign the deeds confirming your ascension immediately you have them prepared.’ Styliann poured himself another glass of wine. ‘I cannot see a single reason why you should refuse.’
‘And that is exactly why I am so concerned.’
Styliann chuckled. ‘I am glad to see your mind still turns. Nonetheless, my offer is everything that you want and nothing you don’t.’
‘Why?’ Dystran leaned forward. ‘I cannot fathom why you would give up so tamely all for which you have lived.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you can,’ said Styliann. He pitied Dystran’s lack of true vision. Pitied it but welcomed it. ‘But there are some paths opened to us from which we dare not turn.’
‘And the noon shade is one of those things?’
Styliann inclined his head. ‘In a sense, yes.’
Dystran looked away into the fire but Styliann could see his eyes flicking as the thoughts tumbled through his head. Indeed, he was probably in a close Communion with his aides, who had wisely elected to remain anonymous to Styliann. Dystran’s silence was brief.
‘The papers will be drawn up. You will sign them and leave the city immediately, returning only with my permission and carrying Septern’s pages which are loaned to you for the purpose of saving Balaia. Is that acceptable?’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Styliann, rising. ‘And now I will leave you to your work. The Lord of the Mount enjoys little respite. I shall await the papers in the Grand Dining Room.’
‘Food will be brought.’
‘Thank you.’ Styliann proffered a hand which Dystran took a little reluctantly. ‘Until we meet again.’ Clutching Septern’s writings, Styliann left the Tower.
Later, walking back towards the waiting Protectors, Cil trailing him leading a line of six laden pack-horses, Styliann gazed down at the papers and parchments in his hands and wondered at the stupidity of the new Lord of the Mount. He hadn’t questioned any of the papers Styliann had selected, indeed hadn’t even glanced over them. Yet they were the keys to power and influence that made Dystran an insignificant pawn.
One day, he would realise that. It was a day Styliann relished.
It was hardly night at all, not in the way Hirad understood it. He stood in the lee of the north wall, a line of six saddled, bagged and magically-calmed horses tethered nearby while the latest assault on the College raged outside. The afterglow of spells flared visibly in the pre-dawn dark, flooding the sky where the fires from a hundred burning buildings in Julatsa already carved their signatures.
Flames and hail lashed the approaching Wesmen whose screams mixed with the orders of the lead mages who directed the fire and ice. The thrum of bowstrings punctuated the voices but the rasp of swords was missing. No Wesmen had yet scaled the walls but they were getting closer and closer.
Hirad was content to stand in the shadows and listen. There was nothing he could do and he had to prepare himself, as did all The Raven. The morning and the Dordovan attack, when it came in, would be difficult. Risky. And The Raven weren’t given to taking chances.
As he leant against the wall, hand absently rubbing his horse’s shoulder, the door to the Tower opened and a huge figure stooped through it followed by one much slighter. The Unknown and Ilkar. He smiled as they ambled towards him, for all the world two friends merely out for a stroll, chatting as they walked. But Hirad could guess their words, and remarks about the warmth of the morning would not be among them.
Shortly afterwards, lamp light spilled into the courtyard from the infirmary and three silhouettes emerged. In the centre the tall man walked hunched and bowed, his companions always half a step ahead. Theirs was a silent march.
‘Been here long?’ asked Ilkar as he approached.
‘Long enough to hear the strains in the defence,’ replied Hirad. ‘Feeling good?’
‘As you ever can at this ungodly hour.’
‘Any word from the Dordovans?’ asked Hirad.
‘ “Be ready,” ’ replied Ilkar.
‘That it?’
‘Well they didn’t give a tactical battle plan involving points of insertion, pressure magic and flank defence, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Ilkar’s ears pricked. ‘This was a brief Communion, not a round-table discussion.’