Shadowheart

'Yes.' Kestys, that was his name. Dystran had never been good at remembering names. But he remembered faces all right. And this man's, unremarkable and slightly reddened as it was, was utterly familiar.

'And the caster?'

'That we have not yet ascertained.' Kestys looked for help to either side of him. It did not come.

'I see.' Dystran sucked in a breath slowly and carefully. 'Stop me if I make a mistake here. We still have Protectors on Herendeneth, meaning we have muscle and we have the means to communicate ' between there and here, correct? Yes. And you have presumably requested that the Al-Drechar be questioned about the identity of our mysterious practitioner?'

'Of course, my Lord,' said Kestys, shifting in his seat, a light sweat on his brow. 'But they have not been forthcoming.'

Dystran pushed his hands through his hair. 'On that island, our people face one dragon with no fire, one woman and a baby, half a dozen servant elves and two old mages. How is it they have been allowed to be "not forthcoming".'

'The Al-Drechar retain considerable power.'

Dystran smiled thinly. 'They do. They are also very, very old, and dying. They spent themselves trying to protect the Nightchild from her own power and they have never fully recovered. Two of them died. Pressure them further. And if they resist, threaten someone else. The baby, for instance… any latent talent there that could scare five Xeteskian mages? I think you understand me.'

'My Lord.'

A door opened behind him. Dystran turned to see Ranyl shuffle in. The cancer-ravaged mage was leaning heavily on two sticks but still refusing the aid of the mages trying to cluster around him. The room focused on him while he dragged himself to his chair next to Dystran and sat down, propping the sticks against the table. His face displayed his pain, his eyes his undimmed determination.

The Lord of the Mount poured him a glass of chilled water. Ranyl drank deeply.

'Thank you, my Lord.'

'Any time,' said Dystran. 'We will continue if you are ready.'

Ranyl smiled. 'Make no allowances, my Lord. I am here, therefore I am capable.'

A dry chuckle ran around the table. Ranyl commanded enormous respect from every mage in Xetesk but there was more to it than that now. Every senior mage knew that Dystran would respect Ranyl's wishes on his successor to the Circle Seven.

'So that we don't delay you any longer than necessary, we will deal with the progress of our research into the elven writings. I was hearing about a breakthrough?'

'Small but very significant,' said Gylac, the chief archivist and the only man truly capable of deciphering the ancient elven writings. Another man whom Dystran feared would die before his work was complete. 'I have found a common thread in all the pieces we recovered from Calaius. It speaks of the encasing of all elven people in a sheath of magic that sustains diem in die tasks laid down for them by their gods.'

'The key to their longevity?'

'It is the closest we have got so far, my Lord,' replied Gylac. 'What I find interesting is the similar language we have found in die admittedly vague references to the Elfsorrow.'

'Oh yes?'

Gylac gestured at Ranyl. 'My Lord Ranyl has theorised on the subject to a greater extent than I. I am concentrating on translation.'

'Gylac is being rather modest,' said Ranyl, inclining his head. 'This is not a small breakthrough. If we are proved correct and can understand fully the interaction between elves and mana, we should be able to create a spell that disrupts this sheath. Synthesise Elfsorrow, if you like. The construct is already in development but we have too many unknowns to complete it dius far.'

Dystran's heart rate was up. It was more than he could have hoped at this stage. 'How long?'

'I cannot say,' said Ranyl. 'Gylac's team are working as hard as they can but some of the language is so arcane it defies translation. I suggest we increase our efforts to capture an elf or two who could help us.'

Dystran nodded. ‘Iam meeting our military commanders shortly and will discuss that option with them. Thank you. All of you. This is good news. But only as far as it goes. We must have new weapons or we will eventually lose this war.' He paused. 'Now, our dimensional experiments.'

'Complete,' said Ranyl. 'We have re-established full contact with the demon dimension; the Al-Drechar's information has allowed us to redraw our map of inter-dimensional space and calculate dimensional alignment events. When they occur, our full range of dimensional spells will be available for the event's duration. We are ready. We are back in control.'

Dystran smiled again. 'I want the alignment information passed to the army so we can factor it into our attack plans. When will the first helpful event occur?'

'Three days,' said Ranyl.

'Then that informs our timetable.' Dystran jabbed a finger at Kestys. 'You need to do more work. Get me the identity of the One caster on Balaia and get it for me in three days. Given that we are again linked to the rest of dimensional space, we can send that damn dragon home. Perhaps you should offer a deal. Actually, I don't care. If I catch you sleeping before this task is complete, I will feed you to the demons.

'Eat quickly. This meeting is closed.'

To his credit, Riasu had despatched a fast rider towards the Wesmen Heartlands immediately he'd taken Devun in. To Devun's irritation, he hadn't advised the new Black Wing leader of the fact for over two days. They were two days when Devun alternately feared for his life and saw the potential of Selik's plans open up for him.

Riasu wasn't a particularly difficult man but he was suspicious. And his grasp of standard eastern Balaian was fragmented, though still far better than Devun's tribal Wes. His suspicion was well founded and explained his initial hostility.

He had been tricked by eastern devils before, he had said, and he would not be again. One mage and his army of walking dead, blank-faced men had promised the Wesmen help in destroying all the colleges bar Xetesk six years before. He had been a liar, like all easterners. Many brave Wesmen warriors had gone to the Spirits because of him. He, Devun had discovered after more difficult questions, had been Styliann, former Lord of the Mount of Xetesk; and killed by a dragon in an alien dimension.

Still, it gave Devun his first glimmer of hope. Riasu had been very pleased to hear of Styliann's demise. But it had still taken Devun two days of fragmented discussion to persuade Riasu first not to kill him and second, to take him to meet Tessaya.

And so to this. Devun and his few Black Wing guards, riding unarmed under the hostile gaze often times their number of Wes-men warriors. None of their hosts bar Riasu had horses but they seemed unconcerned by hours of jogging, leaving Devun impressed despite himself.

There had been a glint in Riasu's eye when he revealed Tessaya had already been contacted and that a meeting point had been arranged. Devun had firmly gritted his teeth and consigned the memories of fear and uncertainty to the back of his mind. All that mattered was that he was making progress and Riasu could have his little victory. He was acutely aware, though, that Riasu was one hurdle, Tessaya another entirely.

The terrain they travelled was spectacular if bleak. Great shale and rock slopes fled away to the north while ahead a line of scrub-covered hills promised difficult conditions for man and horse.

'Tell me, Riasu, did your people suffer under die bad storms?' asked Devun, keeping his language deliberately simple as he referred to the elemental destruction wreaked across the continent by the Nightchild.

Riasu turned a harsh face to him as they rode together. The dark, unruly hair that surrounded his gruff, wrinkled face was shot with grey. His lips were small, his nose bulbous, having seen too much wine over the years, and his eyes were buried deep beneath his brow.

'Warriors died with no enemy to fight,' he said. 'Children's bellies swelled though no food was inside. Elders perished early to join the Spirits. We suffer still but nothing breaks the Wesmen.'