Where were they? Were they together? Gods, she hoped so. Were they alive? The tears came as the drug eased its hold on her body just a little. Great heaving sobs tore through her being and her cries echoed around her prison. Eventually, exhausted, she slept again.
Dawn and a second waking brought no relief from the agony of her loss. Pale light came through a single window high up in her circular room. She was in a tower, that much was certain. The room contained a small pallet bed, a desk and chair, and a woven rug whose red and gold had long ago faded but whose weight gave welcome insulation from the stone-flagged floor. She was still wearing the nightgown they had taken her in. She had not been wearing any socks, let alone shoes, and the room was chill. Dust covered every surface, puffing into the air around her body as she shifted uncomfortably on the bed. She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders.
A single door commanded her attention. It was locked and bolted, its heavy wood flush in the stone frame of the tower wall. The tears came again, but this time she was strong enough to force them back, driving her mind to seek the mana and a way out of the tower. It was there, pulsing within her and flowing around her, never stopping, always shifting and changing, urgent and random in its direction. Escape was just an incantation away. The door would prove no barrier to her FlameOrb.
But even as she readied to cast, the words came back. If you cast, your boys will die. Her senses returned and she found she was standing. She sagged into the chair.
‘Patience,’ she said. ‘Patience.’ Anger in a mage could be so destructive, and while she didn’t know the fate of her sons, she couldn’t afford to lose the famously short Malanvai family temper.
While the yearning in her heart and the ache in her womb intensified with every passing second, her mind was beginning to see clearly at last. They had known she was a mage because they took her from Dordover for something specific. But they also wanted control. And controlling a conscious mage is difficult without restraint and violence. But they had found a way to chain her through her sons. It was for that reason she believed them alive. And not only that, close. Because whoever took her must know she wouldn’t help them without seeing her boys first. Hope surged within her but the flicker of joy she felt at an imminent reunion died as she saw her locked door.
Her heart turned over at the thought of her boys, so young, so alone and so frightened. Snatched in the middle of the night and locked in a place they wouldn’t recognise or comprehend. How must they feel? Betrayed. Abandoned by those who claimed to love them the most. Terrified by their solitude and helplessness. Traumatised by separation from their mother.
Fury bubbled beneath the hurt.
‘Patience,’ she murmured. ‘Patience.’ They would have to come soon. While a jug of water had been left on the desk, there was no food in the room.
She fixed her eyes on the door while hatred for her captors seethed in her veins, the brophane dragged at her strength and her body pulsed mana and love to her children.
But when the key finally turned and the man she had dreaded seeing stood before her, she could do nothing but sob her thanks at his words.
‘Welcome to my castle, Erienne Malanvai. I trust you are recovering. Now, I think we had better reunite you with your beautiful little boys.’
It was cold and he sat alone on cracked earth in a vast featureless empty space. There was no wind yet something was moving his hair and when he looked in front of him the Dragon was there. Its head was big, he couldn’t see the rest of its body. It breathed on him and he just sat there as the skin was burnt from his face and his bones darkened and split. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He was flying above the land and it was black and smouldering. The sky above him was thick with Dragons but on the ground nothing was moving. He looked for his hands but they weren’t there and he felt for his face but the flesh was gone. It was hot. He was running. His arms were pumping hard but his legs moved so slowly. It was catching him and there was nowhere to run. He fell and there it was in front of him again. It breathed and he just sat there as the skin was burnt from his face and his bones darkened and split. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide and the heat scorched his eyes though he could not close them. He opened his mouth to scream.
Hands were about his face. He was sitting up but there was no Dragon, no blackened land. The fire was roaring in the grate. Ilkar put down the poker he’d been using to whip up the flames. Hirad thought it must be cold but he felt hot. Very hot. Talan and The Unknown were sitting up in their beds and it was Sirendor who was cupping his face.
‘Calm down, Hirad. It’s over. Just a dream.’
Hirad looked the room over again, breathing deeply, his heart beginning to slow.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
Sirendor patted his cheeks and rose to his feet. ‘Scared the life out of me,’ he said. ‘I thought you were dying.’
‘So did I,’ replied Hirad.
‘You and the rest of the castle,’ said Ilkar, stretching and yawning.
‘Loud, was I?’ Hirad managed a smile.
Ilkar nodded. ‘Very. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?’
‘I’ll never be able to forget. It was Dragons. Thousands of Dragons. And Sha-Kaan. But it wasn’t here. Wherever it was was dead. Their world, I think. Sha-Kaan told me they were destroying it. It was black and burned. And Sha-Kaan burned me but I didn’t die. I just sat and screamed but there was no sound. I don’t understand. How can there be another world? Where is it?’ He shivered.
‘I don’t know. All I do know is, I’ve never been so scared. Those things don’t exist.’
‘Yes they bloody do.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Sirendor. ‘You’ll have to talk to Ilkar. But later. Maybe we all should. All this talk of dimensions and Dragons. I don’t know.’ He stopped. Hirad wasn’t really listening.
‘What time is it?’
‘Dawn’s about an hour away,’ said The Unknown after hitching a drape aside.
‘I think I’ll pass on more sleep,’ said Hirad. He got up and started pulling on his breeches and shirt. ‘I’m going to the kitchens for some coffee.’ A look passed between Sirendor and the other three. Hirad couldn’t fathom it. ‘No problem, is there?’
‘No,’ said Sirendor. ‘No problem. I’ll join you.’
‘Thanks.’ Hirad smiled. So did Sirendor, but it seemed an effort for him. They left the room.
The castle kitchens never closed and heat filled the cavernous rooms from six open fires. Work and eating tables covered much of the floor space, and on racks around the walls hung pots, pans and utensils, some of which defied understanding. Smoke poured up chimneys and steam through open windows high above. The heat of the fires gave the kitchens a consoling warmth, and the sounds of orders mixed with laughter and carried on the smells of roasting meat and the sweet aromas of freshly baked bread brought back memories of a home life long lost.
On one of the fires a huge pot of water was kept boiling. Mugs and coffee grounds sat on trays near by. Ensconced at a table away from the clatterings of cooks and servants, the two men talked across their drinks.
‘You’re looking glum, Sirendor.’ The friends locked eyes. Sirendor’s seemed sorrowful. His brow was furrowed and his whole face wore trouble like an ill-fitting shirt. Hirad wasn’t used to it.
‘We’ve been talking.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? While you were asleep earlier.’
‘I don’t think I like the sound of this.’ Whatever it was, it was serious. He hadn’t seen Sirendor like this for years.
‘We’re not getting any younger.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard.’
‘Larn, I am thirty-one! You’re thirty and the big man’s just thirty-three and he’s the oldest! What are you talking about?’