She reached the square less than five minutes later and fought to remain calm at what greeted her eyes. The square itself was more than a quarter of a mile each side, paved with white stone and with a glittering quartz-inlaid pathway leading to the pyramid from the east. The tomb of the Wytch Lords reached at least two hundred feet into the night sky, smooth but for the stairway that led to the six beacon fires at its peak. It was a breathtaking structure and one fitting to house the greatest enemy Balaia had ever faced.
And surely they were set to face it again. Because while Selyn’s subconscious registered the stunning architecture, her mind struggled to come to terms with the sea of acolytes who kneeled before the open entrance to the tunnel, silent and unmoving.
The space before the pyramid was a carpet of dark-cowled followers who simply stared into the lantern-flanked blackness. They were waiting. Just waiting. The atmosphere lay heavy on her like a weight between her shoulderblades, the air thick and crackling with anticipation. But overwhelming it all was a feeling of onrushing evil she could all but taste. Above the pyramid, clouds gathered, circling in black impenetrability, adding humidity to the menace. Selyn shuddered. The only sound she could hear above her own thumping heart was the breathing of the acolytes, slow and deliberate, as if it too were an integral part of the ceremony that was surely close.
She didn’t need to see any more. Re-awakening was mere days, perhaps only hours away. She returned to her rooftop and called her communion with Styliann.
‘Fascinating,’ said Styliann, walking a complete circle around The Unknown. ‘A Protector unmasked.’
The Unknown and Denser stood in the Marquee, now shorn of its trappings of conference. The tables and chairs had gone, packed for transit with the delegations planning to leave for the relative safety of their own cities - there would be no more meetings at the lake until the war was over. In their place was a rough trestle, backless benches and a fire on which boiled a pot of water.
Behind them, sitting at the trestle and just arrived, were Ilkar and Erienne. The Julatsan had been unable to contain his delight at seeing The Unknown and his admiration for Denser. Barras had quietened him, but he still wore a broad smile and the sandwiches at his elbow were untouched. Erienne had immediately run to Denser to comfort him, to try to erase some of his pain, but he hardly registered her presence. The College Elders all stood near by, impressed in spite of themselves at the feat for which Laryon had paid with his life.
The Unknown stared down at Styliann, his massive frame making even the Xeteskian Lord of the Mount less imposing. The big warrior had abandoned the axe Sol had employed, preferring to retain just the double-handed blade that was his trademark.
‘I am not a Protector,’ he said. ‘Neither am I an experimental result for examination by you or any mage. If you want to talk to me, stand in front of me.’
Styliann stopped his circling. ‘My apologies, Unknown.’ He smiled. ‘But you are a landmark in magical research and a major step forward for Xetesk.’
‘I am a dead man alive,’ countered The Unknown. ‘I would have preferred death, but Xetesk thought otherwise. That’s the last time you decide my destiny.’
‘You sound a little ungracious. After all, we gave you back your life.’
The Unknown’s right hand shot out, gloved fingers gripping Styliann’s throat, forcing his head back so their eyes met.
‘No. You stole my death.’ Styliann’s hands began to move. ‘Don’t do it. You aren’t fast enough. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and try.’ The Unknown’s hand tightened. Styliann gagged, his hands moving upwards in a supplicating gesture. ‘I had chosen my time to die. Not many men get that chance, and you took it from me.’
‘You are alive,’ gasped Styliann.
‘I could go and visit my own corpse.’
‘Denser, please.’ Styliann clutched at The Unknown’s hand.
Denser appeared to notice the scene for the first time. He took in the other College delegates, the Xeteskian swordsmen standing ready, and Ilkar, whose eyes were fixed on Styliann.
‘Unknown, please let him go.’
Unknown released him and turned to Denser. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
Denser shrugged. Styliann waved his men to stand down but maintained a baleful gaze on The Unknown.
‘I will not be your exhibit. I am Raven,’ said The Unknown.
‘Denser, let’s talk. Outside.’ Styliann walked stiffly from the Marquee by his own exit.
Denser sighed and followed, squeezing The Unknown’s arm as he turned. Leaving the Marquee, he caught sight of the wide smile on Vuldaroq’s face.
Styliann didn’t walk far from the Marquee before shooing away his aides.
‘Tell me of your condition.’
Denser rubbed at the eyes he knew must be sunken, red and ringed in black.
‘I cannot replenish mana stamina, my concentration won’t allow complex recitation and I cannot tune my eyes to the mana spectrum. ’ It was what Styliann needed to hear, but it expressed nothing about his true condition.
His sense of loss penetrated right into his bones and chilled his body. His mind was at once crowded with images and empty of feeling. That part of his mind which the Familiar had for so long shared was missing and Denser imagined a hole in his head above his right eye and it itched. Only when he put his hand there, the itch was on the inside and he couldn’t quiet it.
But the loss of the voice and the pulse, that was what hurt more than the pain he still felt at its death. The voice had given him calm and comfort but the pulse he had taken as a right, something that was of him. Now that pulse was gone, part of him had died.
‘Your faculties will soon return. You merely need rest. As for the grief you feel, that will remain, I am afraid.’ Styliann’s face softened. ‘I am sorry it happened but I fail to understand why it attacked Nyer’s party. That isn’t to say I’m displeased to hear of the traitor’s death.’
‘He felt he had to distract Nyer. He thought they were too close.’ Denser shrugged. ‘They might have taken The Raven before they reached here.’ He shook his head. ‘Might. I didn’t think he had to. I think he felt he had to prove his worth.’
‘Worth?’ Styliann frowned. ‘It was a Familiar. It had no concept of worth.’
‘Did you ever take a Familiar?’ asked Denser. Styliann shook his head. ‘Then you can have no idea what concepts they hold. I have felt. I know.’
Styliann chewed his lip reflectively. He looked up at the early morning sky, taking in the light cloud cover. ‘Show me the catalysts, ’ he said at length.
‘I don’t have them.’
‘Then where—’
‘The Raven hold them. I couldn’t take them into Xetesk.’
Styliann exhaled through his nose. ‘No. No indeed.’
A brief commotion in another part of the camp interrupted further conversation. The sound of hoofs approaching was followed by the sight of The Raven and Evanson rounding a stand of bushes.
They pulled up close to the Marquee and dismounted. Hirad strode over to Denser, expectation on his face. But the question he was about to ask was lost as he read Denser’s eyes. Instead, he inclined his head in respect and grasped the Dark Mage’s right arm just below the shoulder.
‘I understand your pain,’ he said.
‘And I your anger,’ said Denser. He paused, managing a weak smile. ‘He’s inside.’
The Unknown was sitting on a bench behind a trestle table, talking to Ilkar and Erienne as Hirad moved the curtain aside and walked in. A lump rose in his throat as he watched the big man for a short while until he was sure his voice was steady enough for speech.