‘It’ll make no difference. They won’t release him.’
Hirad looked over at Sol, sorrow swamping his anger in an instant. ‘Try. Please?’ His voice, suddenly quiet and imploring, was backed by his eyes, searching Denser’s, desperate and pleading. He let the Dark Mage go. ‘This is my friend. You have to do something.’
Denser wanted to tell him that this wasn’t his friend. That he was a Xeteskian fighting machine, a man with natural magical defence and strength augmented by the weight of all the Protectors whose souls resided in the catacombs of Xetesk. A being with no mind but to defend his master. A man quite without emotion or fear. A man whose ability in a fight was increased the more Protectors were around him. That he was no longer The Unknown Warrior.
Instead, he nodded. He couldn’t do anything else. And he needed to find out for himself just why Nyer had sent him this Protector amongst the hundreds in the College. And why Styliann had approved the assignment. Something wasn’t quite right, and Nyer needed to understand the strength of feeling that bound The Raven together.
‘I will commune in the morning, the moment I have recovered my strength,’ he said.
Hirad nodded his thanks. ‘I mean it,’ said the barbarian. ‘I can’t go on with him still a Protector. I know Balaia is in danger but it would be a betrayal of everything I have lived for.’
It was truly astonishing. But at the same time, it was terrifying.
Selyn had visited Parve once before, perhaps ten years ago. It was part pilgrimage, part orientation, part initiation for a mage spy. That time the City had been deserted and devastated, the dust of centuries blowing over scattered ruins, the wind howling across open spaces where great buildings once stood. Then, her march across the Torn Wastes had been simple. A stroll through cracked earth, harsh bramble and shivered stone to an empty ruined City.
Xetesk’s mages and Protectors of three hundred years earlier had certainly been thorough. Within Parve itself, every building had been taken apart in a systematic destruction. Anything of any religious or magical significance had been buried. Roads were dug from their foundations, small dwellings obliterated and marketplaces turned inside out. All because Xetesk felt the desire to warn anyone who stood against the Colleges that their magic was no match.
And in an area roughly seven miles in every direction from the centre of Parve, nothing of any worth would ever grow again. The sheer concentration of mana and, myth had it, anger poured into Parve and its surrounds had poisoned the air and the earth, snuffing out vegetation and driving all animal life into the surrounding hills and woodland.
So, as the trees rotted and fell, the crops shrivelled and died and the scrubland roots delved deep to lie dormant, the Torn Wastes were born as eternal testimony to the awful power of offensive magic.
As Selyn approached the periphery of the Wastes, she all but ignored the emptiness, registering only that it would take a superhuman CloakedWalk to reach Parve across so large an open space. Because, with the afternoon fading towards a gloomy dusk, hundreds of lights and fires were burning in the City of the Wytch Lords. And surrounding the city were tented encampments bristling with life. The Torn Wastes were awash with Wesmen.
Her vantage point was the tree line which stretched across the eastern border of the Wastes. To her right, not two hundred yards away, a Wesmen guardpost stood at the head of the main east-west path through the scattered woodland. About fifteen men stood or sat around a fire, watching a stream of Wesmen marching from the Wastes, moving in the direction of Understone Pass.
Her decision was a simple one. Either take communion right where she was and be forced to spend the night recovering outside the City, or move on as darkness fell, making her successful passage to Parve more likely.
She knew she should report in, she was overdue, but her chances of capture were greater in the open than ensconced on the roof of an outhouse in the west of Parve. But should she be caught before she had a chance to communicate the incredible sight before her, Xetesk would be denied critical information.
She wasn’t long in making up her mind. With a smile, and her eyes on the main prize of her journey, she waited until full nightfall before checking her camouflage and slipping out of the relative safety of the trees and into the evil of the Torn Wastes.
‘How disappointing,’ said Nyer after Denser had outlined the discovery of Sol’s former identity. ‘It is clear that the suppression of memory is not perfected.’
‘Why did you send him, Master?’
‘There was a need to know the answer to the question of latent knowledge affecting performance.’
Denser paused, mind racing, feeling Nyer’s presence in his mind. He wanted to remain calm but found he could not.
‘You used us for an experiment?’ He fired the thought, knowing it would cause discomfort. ‘Do you know what you have done?’
‘Calm yourself, Denser,’ warned Nyer. ‘There has been no damage. We will merely recall the Protector.’
‘It is too late for that. The Raven are demanding you release Sol from thrall.’
‘Really?’ Nyer’s tone suggested amusement. ‘They are an interesting group. And what is the penalty for failing to accede to their request?’
‘They have threatened to walk away from the search.’
‘And will they carry out this threat?’
‘I have no doubt that they will,’ said Denser. ‘I could only be sure of retaining the Dordovan mage, Erienne.’
‘You do know that the release of a Protector is still only a theoretical possibility?’
‘Yes.’ Denser sent a feeling of irritation at the question. ‘But the attempt needs to be made if we are to remain on target for the recovery of Dawnthief.’
‘Bring your Protector and bring your friends. But be careful. There is treachery in the College from those who would have Dawnthief for themselves. I will do what I can to release Sol. Trust no one.’
Ilkar looked at Denser, lying still on the grass as dawn broke across the sky behind him. He’d seen the occasional movement of his face as his communion progressed, but it gave no indication of the probable outcome.
Hirad came to his shoulder. ‘Ready?’ he said. Ilkar nodded. The Unknown stood near by, arms folded, impassive behind his mask. ‘Will they see sense?’
Ilkar snorted. ‘Sense is not a word often employed when talking about the Xetesk Masters. We just have to hope.’
Denser’s eyes snapped open. He took a shuddering breath, dragged himself to his feet and faced Ilkar and Hirad.
‘Well?’ demanded Hirad.
Denser closed his eyes and sighed, a half-smile touching his lips. He spread his arms wide.
‘We’d better get saddled up,’ he said, swaying.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Ilkar.
‘Xetesk.’
Chapter 23
It was, Ilkar reflected as The Raven rode towards the City of the Dark College, the only viable route to a solution. Yet somehow he’d convinced himself that the Masters would be able to issue instructions to Denser remotely.
Understandably, Denser looked calm and happy. There was something undeniably comforting about returning to your College. It was like going back to the welcoming arms of your family. But watching the Dark Mage chatting easily to Erienne as they rode ahead of him, he couldn’t help but feel there was more to his high spirits than his imminent return home.