Tinjata, for all his senile meanderings those thousands of years ago, had been right about one thing. An awakened Child of the One could lay waste to Balaia in less than half a year. It was up to the surviving Al-Drechar to stop that by keeping her from the worst excesses of herself until she was old enough to understand the control she had to master. If she couldn't, the Al-Drechar would be left with one alternative and its mere contemplation was hideous.
Not for the first time, Cleress cursed the Dordovans for disturbing something in which they should never have meddled.
'What do you want me to do, Ephy?'
'Go in and speak to her. Hear how she describes it. I'll cap the flaring and monitor the mana shape.'
Cleress nodded and entered the orchard. It had an eerie quality to it, though the late afternoon sun cast a warm yellow light. The birds weren't singing and the creak of boughs and branches under Lyanna's control was alien in the windless air.
Close to, Cleress could see Lyanna's eyes darting from leaf to leaf, her mouth moving, her smile alternately thinning and broadening as if the answers she thought she received to her questions pleased her. Her outstretched arms trembled with the effort of maintaining the mana shape and a frown creased her brow. She was tiring.
Cleress knelt by her and smoothed a loose hair from her forehead.
'Lyanna, can you hear me?' she asked, her voice soft despite the effects of the Lemiir.
'I've got my friends here, look, Clerry,' replied Lyanna, not turning from her work, her voice distant with effort.
Cleress looked and had to smile at what kept Lyanna spellbound. From an arc in front of her, branches flowed in, almost touching her face, caressing the arm in front of her and moving over and floating across each other, like the tentacles of a benign sea creature, the stiffness of the bark and grain gone, replaced by a flesh-like suppleness.
And in the branches, the leaves danced and rustled, twisting and bending along their lengths, their gentle susurrations almost musical. It was a beautiful sight and Cleress gazed back at Lyanna, wondering what it was the little girl imagined she saw and heard.
'Are they good friends?' asked Cleress. 'They look pretty.'
'Yes they are, but they can't talk to you because you wouldn't understand.'
'Oh, I see. And what are they saying to you?'
'There are bad people coming here but good people too, to help us. And you're very tired and it's because of me but it's all right really.'
Cleress was speechless. She glanced over to Ephemere but her sister was deep in concentration, eyes closed, hands held at her midriff.
'How do they know that? They must be very clever.'
Lyanna nodded, the leaves rustled as if in applause.
'They know because that's how it feels, silly.'
The elderly Al-Drechar stifled a gasp. Lyanna was feeling communication through the nuances of the mana flow. Some of it she probably picked up from conversations with Erienne but the rest was somehow being filtered from the random force roaring through
her head. Had to be. But it also had to be terribly draining and dangerous. She only hoped Ephemere was in control of the flaring.
'And have your friends told you anything else?' Cleress almost feared the answer.
Another nod from Lyanna but this time her smile was gone and her eyes moistened.
'It's going to get dark soon and I won't be able to see them for ages. And I might get lost but you will help me.'
'Oh, Lyanna, dear,' said Cleress, her heart brimming with sorrow. 'Say goodbye to your friends. I'm afraid Night is coming.'
Chapter 12
There it was. Quite unmistakable. Like the first breath of wind on a becalmed sea. And again.
Far to the south, north of Calaius, the mana spectrum was in flux. This far away, the movement was slight but its very abnormality was its fascination and its betrayer.
The experienced mage could sense the casting of spells throughout Balaia with the mind tuned to the base spectrum, brief oases of order rising from total chaos. But these eddies were altogether different, almost alien and undoubtedly emanating from a collapsing static spell. Interpretation was still difficult, though. They were slight, mere nudges at the random whole.
The Dordovan master, Gorstan, stood and sensed until he was completely sure. This was not Balaian magic. It had a quality of completeness even in its distress, that he could not have achieved. This was magic from another power, a greater power, and through his distaste, he felt awe.
Gorstan turned, reattuning his eyes to the dull grey light from the heavy Balaian sky.
T have them,' he said.
Selik smiled, a twisted sneer affecting only half his disfigured face.
'How far?'
Gorstan shrugged. 'Days. It's impossible to be more accurate from here but I suspect its base to be in the Ornouth Archipelago.'
'If you'll excuse me, Gorstan.'
'With great pleasure,' replied the Dordovan. Selik nodded curtly and swept away, the hood of his cloak back over his face, two aides by his sides.
Gorstan watched him go then turned back towards the south,
head down, eyes fixed on the ripples on the largely still waters of the River Arl as it fed into the Southern Ocean.
He supposed Vuldaroq was right and that Selik was a useful ally for now. But he couldn't help thinking that Dordover would be forever mired by their now open contact with the Witch Hunters. Gorstan was nominally in charge of the one hundred mages and two hundred foot now billeted all around Arlen and it wasn't hard to sense the nervousness among the sleepy port's populace. And, with rumours of Xetesk on the way, backed by Protectors, he wondered whether it wasn't really Selik who was driving it all.
Vuldaroq was due in Arlen shortly and the sooner he arrived, the better.
Hirad, The Unknown and Ilkar led their four horses into Grey-thorne late in the evening. Cloud still hung heavy in the sky, the wind whipping across open land. Everywhere, the ravages of the wind had been evident as they had ridden in: flattened plains grass, interspersed with sections of dirt where stalks had been torn out at the roots and, here and there, the corpses of animals and even two people that none of the survivors had yet found.
They had been a middle-aged couple, huddled together inside a barn that had collapsed on top of them, crushing their bodies beneath thatch and beam. Ilkar had spotted them as The Raven had ridden past to see if they could help. All that was left for them was a burial.
Not long after leaving Thornewood, they'd come across a ragtag column of refugees heading south to Gyernath from Rache in the north. Rache had been struck by gales off the Northern Ocean and a massive mudslide from surrounding hills. It had engulfed most of the town, burying many alive. Those that had survived had fled, believing it would be safer in Gyernath, a warm, tranquil southern port. The Raven hadn't the heart to tell them that nowhere was safe.
The last leg of the journey had been slow and largely silent, each of them brooding on what they had seen and heard on the road. Greythorne was the worst of it.
As The Raven approached, the multiple lights had given them hope that the quiet market town had escaped the hurricane. But closer to, the gathering gloom could not obscure the reality.
What Hirad thought were sloping roofs revealed themselves as part-collapsed walls, leaving angles of broken stone spearing into the sky. The lattice of swept cobbled streets that ran to the market place was filled with rubble and debris. Dust blew through the town and the only roofs standing were tented ones, raised as emergency shelter.
The Raven had seen this sort of destruction before, albeit not on such a scale, but it was the people that brought home the horror of what had befallen Greythorne.