‘Inevitable? When can murder ever be inevitable?’
‘Enough!’ Styliann rose again. ‘You are well aware of the bond between a Xeteskian mage and his Familiar, and so was your foolish student. Another time he might have been successful in trapping both, though why he should wish to is beyond me. His great misfortune was that he chose to steal that belonging to a particularly talented man. Denser was bound to release his Familiar and then your man’s life was over. I have little sympathy.
‘Now. Two incidents, as Barras correctly deduced. We are talking about the theft. I have explained why it was carried out and why we were secretive. Vuldaroq has since demonstrated to me that our secrecy was entirely justified. We are facing catastrophe if we don’t work together. I must have your support and you must believe, as I do, that Dawnthief is our only realistic chance of success.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Barras. ‘But I, personally, am insulted that you kept such information from me.’
‘I see.’ Styliann scratched his ear. ‘All right, let me put it this way. Let’s assume for a moment that I opened up about Dawnthief at the last meeting, and we, as the four-College delegation, went to the Dordovan Council and asked for the Ring of Arteche. What would have been the result? Vuldaroq?’
‘You know full well what the result would have been,’ muttered Vuldaroq.
‘Yes, I do, they would have initially refused.’ Styliann threw his arms wide. ‘Then, following pressure, they might have agreed to release the ring, but they would have demanded a senior mage in attendance at any use of Dawnthief, and to advise on the search as it continued. How long would all this have taken to agree? A month, two months? Gentlemen, I believed that we didn’t have that sort of time, and the movement of the Wesmen invasion forces proves me correct.
‘I apologise for misleading you all about our ideas for the destruction of the Wytch Lords, but we are now in an advanced enough state to stand a realistic chance of success. Now you all know that your councils would have delayed the recovery of the spell, perhaps critically. And you also know that The Raven as it stands contains members of three Colleges, and that, with Heryst’s blessing, is a quorum.’ Heryst inclined his head. ‘Good. All that we need now is to facilitate The Raven’s entry into the west.’
‘And how might we do that?’ asked Heryst.
‘We’ll have to take Understone Pass,’ said Styliann.
Vuldaroq scoffed. ‘Styliann, there are eight thousand Wesmen in that pass. Just how do you suggest we achieve this miracle?’
Styliann smiled.
Denser turned to Ilkar and Erienne, his message finished. ‘I’ve done all I can. He will see them away from the farm and on their way to Triverne Lake, then return to me.’
‘Will they make it?’ asked Ilkar, uneasy at leaving The Raven to travel with no magical escort.
Denser nodded. ‘And so will you if you leave now. One of Laryon’s Protectors will take you to the City boundaries. If you ride through the night you’ll be there by dawn. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’
‘And where exactly is Nyer?’ Ilkar’s eyes shifted up and down the corridor. He half expected the Master to loom out of nowhere and attack them.
‘On his way to the farmhouse,’ said Denser. He chewed his bottom lip. ‘I can’t believe he is betraying me.’
‘Denser!’ Laryon called from inside the spell chamber.
‘I must go.’ He kissed Erienne, holding on to the embrace. ‘Be careful.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ She smiled and stroked his face.
‘Get this right, Denser,’ said Ilkar.
‘If it is possible, I’ll beat you to Triverne Lake and The Unknown will be with me.’
‘Now that would be impressive.’
‘Then I’ll see it is done.’ Denser held out his hand. Ilkar hesitated a moment before shaking it.
‘Denser!’ Urgently.
Denser raised his eyebrows, stepped into the spell chamber and closed the door. Ilkar and Erienne heard solid bolts slide home. No one else was getting in.
‘Let’s go,’ said Ilkar. Erienne paused to stare at the door a moment before leading the way back from the catacombs and the suffocating press of Xeteskian mana.
Inside the armoured spell chamber, deep beneath the Mount, The Unknown, Sol, blinked into the candlelight. Denser and Laryon talked at the foot of the slab on which he lay pillowed, clothed in traditional dark tunic and breeches.
‘What I require from you is a mana channel to keep the DemonChain under control until the soul is returned.’ Laryon flexed his fingers. ‘They will resist you, and once the soul moves, they will try to break free. Do you understand?’
Denser nodded.
‘Then let’s begin. I am anxious for the safety of The Raven.’
Laryon moved to Sol’s head, placed his hands over the Protector’s eyes and muttered a short prayer. Sol’s body relaxed, his eyes closed and his head fell to one side. He wasn’t breathing.
‘Time is short. Denser, prepare the mana channel. Hold it in readiness until the Chain is visible. You’ll know what to do instinctively. Trust me.’
Denser breathed deeply and began to construct the shape of the channel. He tuned his consciousness to the mana spectrum, seeing Sol shrouded in a deep blue radiance - the static mana channelled by the DemonChain.
In essence, the shape was simple. It was tubular, with a spiral movement heading away from him. The difficulty was keeping both ends open and firm to accept and contain the DemonChain.
To Denser’s left, the mana shifted, sharpened and deepened in colour. Laryon was casting.
Almost immediately, the radiance encasing Sol rippled, pulling towards the shape Laryon was creating. It shimmered and sparkled, coalescing into something Denser couldn’t make out at first. But steadily, the form became clearer. The mana formed a conical shape, left Sol’s body and settled, one end in the centre of his torso, the other splashed through the floor of the chamber beneath the slab. Energy lines ran up and down its length, and suddenly the DemonChain was there. Faces, limbs, bodies, mouths, fingers, hair. All distilled from the cone. Voices hissed and individuals writhed, but the whole locked together in chaotic form.
One had hands lost in another’s chest. Another’s head melded to a third’s foot. Any combination, but all of them were alive, identical in every physical aspect and very, very angry.
From the centre of the chain, one locked its eyes on Denser and screamed its hate. Denser looked on unfazed.
He took in the beast with a body the size of a newborn child’s, arms long and wiry, legs stubby and malformed and a face full of evil. Blue drool ran from its lipless mouth, tongue licking at its cheeks, fangs tearing rents in its own being. The eyes, huge and slitted, were orbs of dark malevolence and its ears ran high above the crawling skull to meet in a spire over its head.
‘Time, Denser,’ said Laryon, his voice distant with effort.
‘Envelop,’ commanded Denser in response, and his mana channel flashed towards the DemonChain, muffling howls of fury as it opened for the merest moment all along its length and snapped shut around the whole.
‘Excellent,’ said Laryon.
Denser felt him release control of the DemonChain. They turned their attention to the channel holding them and battered at it with feet, fists, fangs and minds.
‘They cannot break through. Keep your concentration steady. They aren’t strong enough,’ said Laryon. ‘Attend to my voice. Now it gets difficult. Only remove the channel on my word.’
Laryon breathed deep and prepared the path for The Unknown’s soul.