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The Dordovan Tower Lord wiped the cloth over his face and hands before pocketing it.

  “Despite your relationship to both Erienne and Lyanna, they were both under the care of Dordover,” said Vuldaroq. “We have a certain image to uphold, protocols to observe. We wanted them returned to us with the minimum of apparent…fuss.” He spread his hands wide and tried a half smile.

  Denser shook his head and moved forward again. Vuldaroq took a pace back, struck his leg against the seat of a chair and sat heavily, face reddening anew.

  “You expect me to believe that? Your secrecy over Lyanna's disappearance has nothing to do with risking public embarrassment. No, there's more. You wanted her back in your College before I even knew she was gone, didn't you?” Denser leaned over the sweating face, feeling the warm, faintly alcohol-tainted breath spatting quickly over his cheeks. “Why is that, I wonder? Scared she would fetch up at the door of a more capable College?”

  Again a slight spreading of the hands from Vuldaroq. “Lyanna is a child of utterly unique talents. And those talents must be channelled correctly if they are not to provoke unfortunate consequences.”

  “Like the awakening of a true all-College ability, you mean? Hardly unfortunate.” Denser smiled. “If it happens, we should celebrate.”

  “Be careful, Denser,” warned Vuldaroq. “Balaia has no place for another Septern. Not now, not ever. The world has changed.”

  “Dordover may speak only for itself, not for Balaia. Lyanna can show us the way forward. All of us.”

  Vuldaroq snorted. “‘Forward’? A return to the One is a step back, my Xeteskian friend, and one talented child does not herald such a step. One child is powerless.” The old Dordovan bit his lip.

  “Only if you stop her realising her potential.” What started as a retort finished as a whisper. Denser paced back, his mouth slack for a moment. “That's it, isn't it? By all the Gods falling, Vuldaroq, if one hair on her head is harmed—”

  Vuldaroq pushed himself out of the chair. “No one is going to harm her, Denser. Calm yourself. We are Dordovans, not witch hunters.” He moved toward the door. “But do find her and bring her back here, Denser. Soon. Believe me, it is important to all of us.”

  “Get out,” muttered Denser.

  “Might I remind you that this is my Tower,” snapped Vuldaroq.

  “Get out!” shouted Denser. “You have no idea what you are toying with, do you? No idea at all.” Denser sat back down in his chair.

  “On the contrary, I think you'll find we have a very good idea indeed.” Vuldaroq stood for a while before shuffling out. Denser listened to his heavy footsteps receding along the wood-panelled corridor. He unfolded the letter they hadn't even found, though it was barely hidden in Erienne's chambers. Denser had known it would be there, addressed to him. And he had known they wouldn't find it, just as she had. No instinct.

  He read the letter again and sighed. Four and a half years it had been since they had all stood together on the fields of Septern Manse, and yet The Raven were the only people he could possibly trust to help him, depleted as they were. Erienne was gone and Thraun presumably still ran with the wolf pack in Thornewood. That left Hirad, with whom he had had a bad falling out a year before and no contact since, Ilkar who was working himself to an early grave in the ruins of Julatsa and, of course, the Big Man.

  Denser managed a smile. He was still the lynchpin. And Denser could be in Korina in a little over two days if he flew all the way. A supper at The Rookery and a glass of Blackthorne red with The Unknown Warrior. A pleasant prospect.

  He decided he would leave Dordover at first light, and turned to ring for a fire to warm Erienne's chambers. There was a great deal of work still to do. Denser's smile faded. The Dordovans would continue their search and he couldn't risk them finding Lyanna first. Not that that was very likely, given the contents of the letter, but he couldn't be certain. And without certainty, his daughter was at risk from the very people Erienne had turned to for help.

  But there was something else too. Something serious nagging at him that he couldn't drag from his subconscious. It was to do with the awakening.

  A strong gust of wind rattled the windows, almost over before it had come. Denser shrugged, switched his attention to the desk and began leafing carefully through its papers.

  Korina was bustling. Trade had been excellent throughout the summer and the seasonal change had brought little diminishment, other than the falling numbers of itinerant travellers and workers, who had begun to take ship for the southern continent, following the heat.

  After two years of rumours of more battles, increased taxation and Wesman invasion, following the end of the war, confidence was returning to Korina's once-deserted docks and markets, with every trader seemingly determined to wring out every last ounce of profit. Market days were longer, more ships sailed in and out on every tide, day and night, and the inns, eateries and hostels hadn't seen such a boom since the halcyon days of the Korina Trade Alliance. And of course, out in the Baronial lands, the bickering had begun in earnest again and the mercenary trade was seeing a return to profitable days. But it was a trade without The Raven.

  The Rookery, on the edge of Korina's central market, groaned at the seams from early dawn when the breakfast trade began, to late evening when the nightly hog roasts were reduced to so much bone and gristle on their spits.

  The Unknown Warrior closed the door on the last of the night's drunks and turned to survey the bar, catching his reflection in one of the small pillar-mounted mirrors. The close-shaven head couldn't hide the spreading grey that matched his eyes, but the jaw was as strong as ever and the powerful physique under the white shirt and dark tan breeches was kept in peak condition by religious exercise. Thirty-eight. He didn't feel it but then he didn't fight any more. For good reason.

  The watch had just called the first hour of the new day but it would be another two before he walked through his own front door. He hoped Diera was having a better night with young Jonas. The boy had a touch of colic and spent a good deal of the time grumbling.

  He smiled as he moved back toward the bar on which Tomas had placed two steaming buckets of soapy water, cloths and a mop. His happiest times of the day were standing over his newborn son's crib at night and waking next to Diera with the sun washing through their bedroom window. He righted a stool before slapping his hands on the bar. Tomas appeared from beneath it, a bottle of Southern Isles red-grape spirit and two shot glasses in his hands. He poured them each a measure. Completely bald now he had entered his fiftieth year, Tomas’ eyes still sparkled beneath his brow and his tall frame was upright and healthy.

  “Here's to another good night,” he said, handing The Unknown a glass.

  “And to the wisdom of hiring those two extra staff. They've taken a weight off.”

  The two men, friends for well over twenty years and co-owners of The Rookery for a good dozen, chinked glasses and drank. Just the one shot every night. It was the way and had become a token these last four or so years. Neither man would miss it after an evening's work together any more than they would give up breathing. It was, after all, to enjoy these moments of magnificently ordinary life that The Unknown had fought with The Raven for more than a decade. Shame then, that with the wisdom of hindsight, he knew they weren't enough.

  The Unknown rubbed his chin, feeling the day's stubble rasp beneath his hand. He looked toward the door to the back room, painted with the Raven symbol and scarce used now.

  “Got an itch, boy?” asked Tomas.

  “Yes,” replied The Unknown. “But not for what you think.”

  “Really?” Tomas raised quizzical eyebrows. “I never could see it, you know. You settling down and actually running this place with me forever.”

  “Never thought I'd live, did you?” The Unknown hefted a bucket and cloth.

  “I never doubted it. But you're a traveller, Sol. A warrior. It's in your blood.”

  The Unknown allowed only Tomas and Diera to use his true name, his P
rotector name, and even now when they did, it always gave him pause. It meant they were worried about something. And the truth was that he had never settled completely. There was still work to be done in Xetesk, to press for more research into freeing those Protectors that desired it. And aside from that, he had friends to see. Convenient excuses when he needed them and while his reasons still drove him, he couldn't deny that he sometimes tired of the endless routine and yearned to ride out with his sword strapped to his back. It made him feel alive.

  It worried him too. What if he never wanted to settle? Surely his desire would fade to something more sedentary in the not too distant future. At least he didn't feel the urge to fight in a front line anymore and there was some comfort in that. And there had been offers. Lots of them.

  He smiled at Tomas. “Not any more. I'd rather mop than fight. All you risk is your back.”

  “So what's the itch?”

  “Denser's coming. I can feel it. Same as always.”

  “Oh. When?” A frown creased Tomas’ brow.

  The Unknown shrugged. “Soon. Very soon.”

  Rhob, Tomas’ son, appeared through the back door that led to the stables. In the last few years, the excitable youth had grown into a strong, levelheaded young man. Glinting green eyes shone from a high-boned face atop which sat short-cropped brown hair. His muscular frame was the product of many years’ physical labour around horses, saddles and carts and his good nature was a pure reflection of his father's.

  “All in and secure?” asked Tomas.

  “Yes indeed,” said Rhob, marching across to the bar to grab the other bucket and the large rag-headed mop. “Go on, old man, you get off to bed, let the youngsters fix the place up.” His smile was broad, his eyes bright in the lamp light.

  The Unknown laughed. “It's a long time since I've been called a youngster.”

  “It was a relative term,” said Rhob.

  Tomas wiped the bar top and threw the cloth into the wash bucket. “Well, the old man's going to take his son's advice. See you two around midday.”

  “Good night, Tomas.”

  “‘Night, Father.”

  “All right,” said The Unknown. “I'll take the tables, you the floor and fire.”

  Just as they were into their stride, they were disturbed by an urgent knocking on the front doors. Rhob glanced up from his swabbing of the hearth. The Unknown blew out his cheeks.

  “Reckon I know who this is,” he said. “See if there's water for coffee will you, Rhob? And raid the cold store for a plate of bread and cheese.”

  Rhob propped his mop in the corner and disappeared behind the bar. The Unknown shoved the bolts aside and pulled the door inward. Denser all but fell into his arms.

  “Gods, Denser, what the hell have you been doing?”

  “Flying,” he replied, his eyes wild and sunken deep into his skull, his face white and freezing to the touch. “Can you help me to somewhere warm? I'm a little chilly.”

  “Hmm.” The Unknown supported the shivering Denser into the back room, dragged his chair in front of the unlit fire and dumped the mage into the soft upholstery. The room hadn't changed much. Against shuttered windows, the wooden feasting table and chairs lay shrouded beneath a white cloth. That table had seen celebration and tragedy, and it was a source of sadness that his abiding memory was of Sirendor Larn, Hirad's great friend, lying dead upon it, his body hidden by a sheet.

  The Raven's chairs were still arrayed in front of the fire but every day The Unknown moved them so he could practise with his trademark double-handed sword in private. If there was one thing The Unknown's experience had taught him, it was that nothing in Balaian life was ever predictable.

  Rhob pushed open the door and came in, carrying with one hand a steaming jug, mugs and a plate of food on a tray. In the other was a shovel, full of glowing embers. The Unknown took both from him with a nod of thanks.

  “Don't worry, I'll clear up out front,” said Rhob.

  “Thank you.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Just a little cold,” said The Unknown but he knew there was more. He had seen pain in Denser's eyes and an exhaustion forced upon him by desperation.

  He quickly lit the fire, pressed a mug of coffee into the mage's hands and placed the bread and cheese on a table within arm's reach. He sat in his own chair and waited for Denser to speak.

  The Xeteskian looked terrible. Beard untrimmed, black hair wild where it protruded from his skull cap, face pale, bloodshot eyes ringed dark and lips tinged blue. His eyes fidgeted over the room, unable to settle, and he constantly fought to frame words but no sound came. He'd pushed himself to the limit and there was no beyond. Mana stamina was finite, even for mages of Denser's extraordinary ability, and a single miscalculation could prove fatal, particularly under ShadowWings.

  The Unknown had felt a tie to Denser ever since his time as the mage's Given during his lost days as a Protector. And looking at Denser now, he found he couldn't stay silent.

  “I understand something's driven you to get here as fast as you can but killing yourself isn't going to help. Even you can't cast indefinitely.”

  Denser nodded and lifted his mug to trembling lips, gasping as the hot liquid scalded his throat.

  “I was so close. Didn't want to stop outside the City. We'd have lost another day.” His numbed lips stole the clarity from his words. He made to say more but instead coughed violently. The Unknown leaned in and grabbed the mug before he slopped coffee on his hands.

  “Take your time, Denser. You're here now. I'll find you a bed when you need it. Be calm.”

  “Can't be calm,” he said. “They're after my girl. Erienne's taken her away. We've got to find her first or they'll kill her. God's, she's not evil. She's just a little girl. I need The Raven.”

  The Unknown started. Denser's tumble of words had shaken him every which way. But it was the solution that troubled him almost as much as the problem. The Raven had disbanded. All their lives had moved on. Reformation was unthinkable.

  “Think hard, Denser, and slow down. I need to hear this from the start.”

  Night on the southern slopes of the Balan Mountains, half a day's ride from the largely rebuilt town of Blackthorne. The stars patterned the sky, moon casting wan light, keeping back full dark.

  Hirad Coldheart tracked down the steep path, his movement all but silent. It was a path he could traverse blindfold if he had to but this time, speed and stealth were of the essence over the treacherous mud and smooth stone. Hunters were coming again and, like those that had come before, had to be stopped. Yet even if these latest fell as had all the others, Hirad knew that wouldn't put a stop to the stupidity.

  Not many dared the task but the numbers were increasing, as was the complexity and technicality of their planning, as information on habits and strike points filtered through Balaia, falling on interested ears. It sickened him but he understood what drove these men and women.

  Greed. And the respect that would be afforded those first to bring back the ultimate hunter's prize. The head of a dragon. It was why he couldn't leave the Kaan even if he wanted to. Not that they were particularly vulnerable. But there was always the chance. Humans were nothing if not tenacious and ingenious; and this latest group marked another development.

  Hirad still found it hard to conceive of minds that so quickly forgot the debt they owed the Kaan dragons; and it had been The Unknown who had put it in context when delivering word that the first attack was being prepared, after overhearing a drunken boast in The Rookery.

  “You shouldn't be surprised, Hirad,” he'd said. “Everything will ultimately have its price and there are those who will choose never to believe what the Kaan did for Balaia. And there are those who don't care. They only know the value of a commodity. Honour and respect reap no benefit in gold.”

  The words had ignited Hirad's fury exactly as The Unknown had intended. It was what kept him sharp and one step ahead of the hunters. They had tried magic, poison, fire an
d frontal assault in their ignorance. Now they used what had been learned by the deaths and by the watchers. And for the first time, Hirad was worried.

  A party of six hunters; three warriors, a mage and two engineers, was moving carefully and slowly into the foothills below the Choul, where the dragons lived. Their route had taken them away from any population that might have alerted Hirad sooner and they brought with them a crafted ballista, designed to fire steel-tipped wooden stakes.

  Their plan was simple, as were all the best laid. Unless Hirad was sorely in error, they planned to launch their attack this night, knowing the Kaan flew to hunt and feed under cover of darkness. The ballista would be positioned under a common flight path and it had the power to wound, and perhaps cripple with a lucky shot.

  Hirad wasn't prepared to take the risk so descended to meet them before clearing the Kaan to fly. The hunters had made two mistakes in their plan. They hadn't factored Hirad into their thinking and only one of their number was elven. They had placed themselves at the mercy of the night and would soon discover the night had none.

  Hirad watched them through a cleft boulder. They were roughly thirty feet below him and a hundred yards distant. The barbarian was able to track their movement against the dull grey of the landscape by the hooded lantern they carried, the creaking of the ballista's wheels and the hoof-falls of the horses that pulled it.

  They were nearing a small open space where, Hirad guessed, they planned to set up the ballista. The slope there was slight and a butt of rock provided an ideal anchor point. Hirad knew what had to be done.

  Backing up a short distance, he moved right and down into a shallow ditch that ran parallel to the small plateau. With his eyes at plateau level, he crept along its edge and waited, poised, sword sheathed and both hands free.

  The mage led the horses up the incline on the near side, a warrior overseeing their progress on the other. The two engineers walked behind the ballista with the final pair of hunters bringing up the rear.

  Hirad could hear the horses breathing hard, their hooves echoing dully through mufflers tied around their feet. The wheels of the ballista creaked and scraped as it approached, despite constant oiling by the engineers, and the odd word of warning and encouragement filtered up the line.