Chapter 7

In contrast to the dawn weather, the mood was distinctly cool in the Al-Drechar's reception room on Herendeneth. Myriell joined Cleress as usual in their preferred location by the kitchen, their elven helpers shadowing every uncertain, arthritic step. No one would dare disturb their sleep but a trio of tired-looking Xeteskian mages was waiting for them as they awoke. She recognised them all; Nyam, Leryn and Krystaj.

'To what do we owe this pleasure?' asked Myriell, having spent an inordinate amount of time having her cushions and blankets precisely arranged by her Guild elf attendant, Nerane.

She could feel their irritation growing but ignored it and the increasingly frequent 'tuts' coming from Cleress. But then Cleress had spent so much more time defending Erienne's mind of late, including her rather rash use of a creation she wasn't quite ready to use. Understandably, she was tired.

Myriell, on the other hand, had enjoyed her best night's rest for ages and felt energetic enough to indulge in mischief-making.

'You have not been straight with us,' said Leryn. He was their leader and a fool. All slimy smiles and political intent.

'I think you'll find we have answered all your questions to the best of our ability,' said Myriell evenly.

'You did not tell us there was another practitioner of the One.'

'You didn't ask.'

'So there is.' Krystaj this time, a bored and ineffectual student. A poor mage.

'That is your assumption,' said Cleress, finally connecting with Myriell's train of thought.

'And we wouldn't dream of questioning the assumptions of Xetesk,' added Myriell. Looking Leryn square in the eye.

'So tell us,' said Nyam, the only smart one among them. 'Is there another practitioner?'

Myrieil smiled. 'We were a widespread order at one time. There is a chance that others have survived like we have.'

'That is surely untrue,' said Nyam. 'You two are over four hundred years old and have survived this long only because you've been here and have had daily care. We have detected the One magic on Balaia. We suspect a student and you are the only teachers.'

Myrieil and Cleress were silent.

'Tell us,' said Nyam. 'Is there a student with whom you have contact?'

We cannot tell them, pulsed Cleress.

They know already. All we can do is divert them.

They will guess.

This was always inevitable.

‘Iwould remind you that we are not under your control, merely your protection, such as it is,' said Myrieil. 'And we are happy to help with your researches. The state of our order is, and will remain, our own business.'

'Your evasion confirms our suspicions,' said Leryn.

'And your assumptions. Is the knowledge useful?' Cleress employed her best patronising smile.

'You will tell us the name of the practitioner,' said Leryn.

'Ah,' said Myrieil, holding up a finger in admonishment and beginning to really enjoy herself. 'Definitely a mistaken assumption. No we will not, even assuming we know.'

Leryn snatched up the neck of her dress beneath the blankets, dragging her almost upright.

'You are testing my patience, Myrieil. Tell us what we need to know or we will extract it.'

Myrieil felt no fear and displayed nothing but calm. 'Fascinating. Don't you agree, Cleress?'

'Fascinating,' she agreed.

'We were wondering how you propose to do that,' said Myrieil.

'Pain is a great loosener of tongues,' said Leryn.

Myrieil nodded. 'How original.'

She gripped Leryn's wrist with her right hand, her meditation quick and sure. Erienne's chosen construct would be admirable. Short, sharp and very, very hot.

Leryn cried out in sudden pain, leaping backwards and dropping Myriell who released his wrist and settled back into her chair. Leryn looked at his blackened arm, the smell of his toasted skin in the air, die thin tendrils of smoke mesmerising.

'Do not make the mistake of thinking you can threaten us, Xeteskian,' said Myriell, all traces of humour gone from her voice and face. 'We have power you can only guess at and while our bodies may be frail, the One sustains us and guides us until our last breaths. We are in charge here and you will not demand anything of us. Now, the audience is over. Cleress and I wish to talk. Leave at once.'

Myriell signalled Nerane to rearrange her blankets. Nyam opened his mouth but Cleress stayed his words.

'We will not repeat ourselves,' she said.

Nyam looked at Leryn who nodded, his pained expression a picture of shock and humiliation. The three mages left the room in silence.

It is dangerous to stoke their anger, said Cleress, still choosing to speak mind to mind.

It is time they knew their place, countered Myriell. When we were protecting poor Lyanna we had no strength to protect ourselves. Now it is different, if only by a small degree but they will not know that. We are the Al-Drechar. I will not have them think we are helpless.

Well, you've certainly achieved that.

Myriell relaxed further back into her chair, feeling a little tired. Her arthritis was flaring badly. But they will guess soon enough and it will make them desperate. Let's not forget that friends and loved ones of The Raven are our guests here. I think we should have a quiet word with Diera.

Devun didn't have Selik's courage and belief. That fact had hit him hard as he rode through the damp chill of Understone Pass. He'd sent three of his men back to the righteous army to urge patience and begin to explain why they must seek the aid of the Wesmen, leaving a guard of six making the journey to the sworn enemy of Eastern Balaia.

None of them had travelled the Pass before. None had experienced its oppressive closeness, its deep darkness and its extraordinary majesty. To think it was only part natural. That so many had struggled and died for its construction only to unleash a conflict that had rumbled on for hundreds of years, occasionally exploding into bloody and destructive life.

It was an incredible feature that demanded respect but that wasn't why Devun and his men took so long to travel a distance which would take a galloping rider a little over four hours. He knew that it was because he was scared. That he had no idea how he would approach the Wesmen they would encounter at the western end of the pass. And so he and his men moved with exaggerated care, and stopped more and more frequendy the nearer they came. Their lanterns threw shadows in front of them that made their already nervous horses unwilling to move and they needed no second bidding to halt. Though who it was that needed calming more was open to debate.

Devun lost all track of time but thought they must have travelled through the night, given the exhaustion that descended on them all. It did at least allow him to formulate some sort of plan but he couldn't shift the knowledge that Selik would have been far better equipped to face the Wesmen.

All Devun could do was adopt the sort of confident air he knew Selik would have exuded and hope that whoever stopped them failed to see through to the frightened man behind it. Assuming, they weren't simply killed out of hand.

The answers came very suddenly. They had been anticipating the end of the pass for some time. There was more movement in the air. It was less dank and every now and again, the faint smell of wood smoke added to the mix. Their pace had slowed still further and, riding abreast, all seven of them were squinting to the furthest extent of their lanterns' throw when a shout from ahead stopped them.

In moments, dozens of torches were alight ahead of them, stretching from ground level to the natural vaulted roof of the pass above. They illuminated a gated wooden barricade, strengthened with iron strips and punctuated with slits through which Devun could well imagine arrows pointed.