‘Your evasion confirms our suspicions,’ said Leryn.
‘And your assumptions. Is the knowledge useful?’ Cleress employed her best patronising smile.
‘You will tell us the name of the practitioner,’ said Leryn.
‘Ah,’ said Myriell, holding up a finger in admonishment and beginning to really enjoy herself. ‘Definitely a mistaken assumption. No we will not, even assuming we know.’
Leryn snatched up the neck of her dress beneath the blankets, dragging her almost upright.
‘You are testing my patience, Myriell. Tell us what we need to know or we will extract it.’
Myriell felt no fear and displayed nothing but calm. ‘Fascinating. Don’t you agree, Cleress?’
‘Fascinating,’ she agreed.
‘We were wondering how you propose to do that,’ said Myriell.
‘Pain is a great loosener of tongues,’ said Leryn.
Myriell nodded. ‘How original.’
She gripped Leryn’s wrist with her right hand, her meditation quick and sure. Erienne’s chosen construct would be admirable. Short, sharp and very, very hot.
Leryn cried out in sudden pain, leaping backwards and dropping Myriell who released his wrist and settled back into her chair. Leryn looked at his blackened arm, the smell of his toasted skin in the air, the thin tendrils of smoke mesmerising.
‘Do not make the mistake of thinking you can threaten us, Xeteskian,’ said Myriell, all traces of humour gone from her voice and face. ‘We have power you can only guess at and while our bodies may be frail, the One sustains us and guides us until our last breaths. We are in charge here and you will not demand anything of us. Now, the audience is over. Cleress and I wish to talk. Leave at once.’
Myriell signalled Nerane to rearrange her blankets. Nyam opened his mouth but Cleress stayed his words.
‘We will not repeat ourselves,’ she said.
Nyam looked at Leryn who nodded, his pained expression a picture of shock and humiliation. The three mages left the room in silence.
It is dangerous to stoke their anger, said Cleress, still choosing to speak mind to mind.
It is time they knew their place, countered Myriell. When we were protecting poor Lyanna we had no strength to protect ourselves. Now it is different, if only by a small degree but they will not know that. We are the Al-Drechar. I will not have them think we are helpless.
Well, you’ve certainly achieved that.
Myriell relaxed further back into her chair, feeling a little tired. Her arthritis was flaring badly. But they will guess soon enough and it will make them desperate. Let’s not forget that friends and loved ones of The Raven are our guests here. I think we should have a quiet word with Diera.
Devun didn’t have Selik’s courage and belief. That fact had hit him hard as he rode through the damp chill of Understone Pass. He’d sent three of his men back to the righteous army to urge patience and begin to explain why they must seek the aid of the Wesmen, leaving a guard of six making the journey to the sworn enemy of Eastern Balaia.
None of them had travelled the Pass before. None had experienced its oppressive closeness, its deep darkness and its extraordinary majesty. To think it was only part natural. That so many had struggled and died for its construction only to unleash a conflict that had rumbled on for hundreds of years, occasionally exploding into bloody and destructive life.
It was an incredible feature that demanded respect but that wasn’t why Devun and his men took so long to travel a distance which would take a galloping rider a little over four hours. He knew that it was because he was scared. That he had no idea how he would approach the Wesmen they would encounter at the western end of the pass. And so he and his men moved with exaggerated care, and stopped more and more frequently the nearer they came. Their lanterns threw shadows in front of them that made their already nervous horses unwilling to move and they needed no second bidding to halt. Though who it was that needed calming more was open to debate.
Devun lost all track of time but thought they must have travelled through the night, given the exhaustion that descended on them all. It did at least allow him to formulate some sort of plan but he couldn’t shift the knowledge that Selik would have been far better equipped to face the Wesmen.
All Devun could do was adopt the sort of confident air he knew Selik would have exuded and hope that whoever stopped them failed to see through to the frightened man behind it. Assuming, they weren’t simply killed out of hand.
The answers came very suddenly. They had been anticipating the end of the pass for some time. There was more movement in the air. It was less dank and every now and again, the faint smell of wood smoke added to the mix. Their pace had slowed still further and, riding abreast, all seven of them were squinting to the furthest extent of their lanterns’ throw when a shout from ahead stopped them.
In moments, dozens of torches were alight ahead of them, stretching from ground level to the natural vaulted roof of the pass above. They illuminated a gated wooden barricade, strengthened with iron strips and punctuated with slits through which Devun could well imagine arrows pointed.
Immediately, he dropped his reins and raised his hands head high to signal peaceful intent, indicating his men should do the same.
‘No sudden moves,’ he said, breathing deep and slow while his heart pounded in his chest. Seeing the structure ahead of him, he was acutely aware of the folly of their position. Just seven men who could so easily be snuffed out. And who would miss them? Few barring those trying to hold the army together near the walls of Xetesk. How in all the hells did he expect to persuade the Wesmen into alliance?
‘Tough it out,’ said one of his men as if hearing his thoughts. ‘Act like Selik would have done and we’ll ride back heroes.’
Just what he was thinking. Carrying it out, now that was something else.
A crack appeared in the doors, and daylight flooded into the pass followed by the sweet smells of spring. Devun shielded his eyes. Three men stood silhouetted in the glare. They began walking when the gates had opened fully, revealing many more behind them. They walked with total confidence, one slightly ahead of the others who both carried unsheathed swords. Moving as slowly as he could, Devun dismounted to meet them.
He faced a shortish man, heavy set, bearded and dressed in light furs. His small eyes scowled from his face and his voice carried no warmth.
‘Who are you?’ he asked in heavily accented western Balaian.
‘I am Devun, leader of the Black Wings. I would know your name.’
‘Lord Riasu. You are far from home,’ he replied, struggling for the right words.
‘I need your help,’ said Devun simply, trying to pick terms Riasu might know. ‘I come to offer a deal to the Wesmen.’
Riasu raised his eyebrows. ‘A deal? We want nothing from you.’
‘You want what I can offer. But I must speak to Lord Tessaya. He is your leader still, is he not?’
Riasu shrugged. ‘Yes. But I can tell him what you tell me.’
Devun shook his head. ‘It must be face to face. Talk to him. Ask him. I will await your reply.’
‘I will think on it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Devun.
Another shrug from Riasu and he turned to go.
‘Lord Riasu,’ said Devun, and waited until the Wesmen lord looked back at him. ‘We are hungry and thirsty. Can you spare food and water?’
Riasu barked out a laugh. ‘You should be dead. This is our land. Be happy you still breathe.’ He paused. ‘I will think on it.’
Devun watched him go, seeing the gates close on him before blowing out his cheeks and turning to his men.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I think we’re still alive and that’s as much as we could hope for,’ said one. ‘What now?’