Darrick grabbed Tendjorn's shirt at the neck with both hands and dragged the mage close.
'Listen to me, Dordovan, and listen very well,' he grated, his eyes cold. He could see the sudden fear in the mage's face. 'These people need our help now. Not in a day, not in seven, but now. Do you really believe that I, as an emissary of Lystern, can ride out of here without lifting a finger? Never mind the unconscionable moral wrong, what the hell sort of a message do you think it would send them about us?
'This operation is under my control. It is two and a half days' ride to Arlen from here. It will take twice that time to secure and provision enough ships to sail as far as Ornouth. My cavalry are tired, my horses exhausted. We will stay to oversee the cleaning up here. Only then will half of us move to Arlen. There, I will decide if Izack and his men stay here or join us. Do you understand me?'
Darrick let the mage go and stepped back. 'Attempt to remove me from command if you dare.'
'Don't challenge me, Darrick,' spat Tendjorn, straightening his clothing and failing not to appear ruffled.
'It's not a challenge. I'm in charge here, remember that.'
'And remember who wields the real power,' returned the mage.
Darrick laughed. 'Yes I do. But we're not in Dordover now, are we? And you are among Lysternans.'
The young General stalked out of the square towards the camp to rouse his tired men to uncover more of the dead.
There had been no trouble with the townspeople who'd come to check on The Raven after the attack by the Dordovan mages. They had no energy to question their story and anyway, The Raven could always be trusted. A further blessing was the dry weather overnight
and The Raven woke shortly before dawn, at the insistence of The Unknown. The Communion to Denser had come with a pale light filtering beneath fast-moving, thin, high cloud across the wrecked town, the renewed noise of activity drifting up to them. Another weary day.
'Who is it?' asked Hirad.
Ilkar regarded him blankly. 'Well, it's a little difficult to tell, strangely enough.'
Hirad made a long face. 'Thought you mages knew this sort of stuff.'
'Tell me, Hirad, if someone gives a friend of yours a letter while you're standing there, do you immediately know who it's from?' Ilkar's ears pricked in irritation.
'Well, letters aren't magical, are they? Isn't there an aura or something?'
'Gods, Hirad, how many Communions have you seen? Isn't it obvious that it's a personal and private conversation?'
'But that doesn't mean you don't know who's talking,' said Hirad evenly but a smile was edging the corners of his mouth.
Ilkar pointed at his face. 'See these? They're eyes. See that? That's Denser, lying on the ground, receiving Communion from the Gods know where or who. I am a mage, not a seer, all right?'
'You know, I've really missed our intellectual debates,' said The Unknown dryly. He knelt by Denser and moved the mage's head further on to his rolled-up cloak. 'So well constructed and delivered.'
'Glad you think so,' muttered Ilkar, throwing a sideways glance at Hirad.
'What I think,' said The Unknown. 'And you think too, Ilkar, is that Denser is most likely in contact with Erienne. After all, few enough know his signature, let alone can guess or have worked out his likely whereabouts.'
'That presupposes Erienne to be not too far distant,' said Ilkar, nodding nonetheless.
'A meeting was always inevitable,' reasoned The Unknown.
'A bit convenient though, isn't it? I mean, we show up here in the middle of basically nowhere and Erienne drops a message in after weeks of nothing?'
The Unknown shrugged. T think we've been together long enough not to believe in coincidence or convenience. Erienne left Denser a letter knowing he would try to find her and that we would help him, should he ask. If her need for him has grown, she'll try to find him now too. It just makes sense for them to meet where she believes he will come to.'
'Clever lady,' said Ilkar.
'I never doubted it,' said The Unknown. He straightened and looked back down the small rise into the centre of Greythorne. 'Some horsemen arrived last night. Cavalry by the order of the hoofbeats. We should find out who it is.'
'Dordovan, no doubt,' said Ilkar, scowling.
The Unknown nodded. 'In all probability. We can show them the bodies of their colleagues, can't we? When Denser comes round, we'll go and look. Just keep your ears open and your eyes sharp. It's looking like we aren't on the same side. All right?'
'Mummy! Mummy!' Lyanna's repeated screams woke Cleress before Aviana's urgent message reached her tired mind. The Al-Drechar's house was dark as she came to but even as she fought for focus in mind and eye, she heard the urgent speech of Guild elves and the snap of Ephemere's voice ordering calm.
But as Cleress emerged into the corridor from her room, a shawl about her shoulders, feet rammed into sandals, night dress floating about her skeletal frame, it was clear Herendeneth was anything but calm.
Outside, a wind howled down the wood-panelled passageway, rattling the pictures hanging on the walls and ruffling the rugs underfoot. Behind Cleress as she limped towards the guest wing where Lyanna slept, a vase crashed to the floor and the breaking of glass echoed from a distant part of the house.
Ahead of her, Ephy had stopped at a set of doors and was speaking to a Guild elf, Cleress couldn't make out who. She saw him nod, bow slighdy and hurry back up the passage towards her.
'Ephy!' called Cleress. Ephemere turned, her face grey and anxious.
'Let Aronaar help you,' she replied. She opened a door but the
wind snapped it shut, the dull bang reverberating along the corridor. Ephemere frowned.
Aronaar trotted up to her, deep green eyes tight with recent sleep, shirt and trousers hurriedly put on. He was barefoot.
'Thank you,' said Cleress, leaning gratefully into him, taking the weight from her stiff and painful right knee.
'You set the pace, my Lady,' said Aronaar, inclining his head slightly.
'Then we'd better make it quick.' They started towards Ephemere. 'We're following you, Ephy. Is she in bed still?'
Ephemere had dragged the door back open and braced it with a foot. She nodded.
'Sitting up but still asleep, Ana says. This could be trouble. She's in danger of becoming uncontained.'
Cleress felt fear shift through her, tensing tired muscles and catching her breath.
'Faster, Aronaar. Much faster.'
It was the flow of the mana they had to assess. The depth of any flaring and the vortices it produced. Without that knowledge, they could do Lyanna incalculable harm, shutting off streams that, with no escape, would disperse themselves inside her mind. Hurrying down the corridor, towards her room, Cleress wondered if that wasn't already happening.
Outside, the orchard was largely still, but every window overlooking it had smashed outwards, leaving jagged spears of glass and warped frames swinging on the wind that gusted strong into their faces.
Above it, Lyanna's wails ran like acid through Cleress' veins and she could but imagine the torment of the young child as she fought a desperate battle to bring her burgeoning power under control.
For days now, the four elderly Al-Drechar had kept unflinching vigil over Lyanna as she descended into her Night. At no time was she left alone in her mind; it was the only way to monitor her acceptance of the mana as part of her being and discern any hint that she was understanding control.
Only now would the Al-Drechar find out whether their terribly short time of teaching had given Lyanna the knowledge that would save her life. But what nagged at them all was that, though Lyanna
was obviously bright and a talent with no bounds or equal to her potential, she shouldn't have had to deal with her fall Awakening until her teens. Not just her mental wellbeing but her physical state too had to be monitored.