Dawnthief Read online

  No longer did Protectors issue from the College to snatch subjects for experiment. And no longer did Xetesk mages use their own people for sacrifice in mana-charge ceremonies. But old fears died hard and rumours would forever fly through the markets that bustled by day but echoed silence at night.

  As darkness fell, a malevolent quiet still emanated from the College in a cloying cloud of apprehension and anxiety like fog rolling in from the sea. Countless years of blood ritual would never be forgotten and forever hearts would quicken at the sound of wood splintering in the distant dark, and cries would be stifled as footsteps were heard slowing by locked doors. Dread ran through the veins of Xetesk and the foreboding receded only with the lightening of the sky on a new morning.

  It made the job of City Guard simple, as at dusk they closed the gates of the only fully walled City in Balaia and patrolled the empty streets. Fear stalked the alleyways as it had done for centuries. But now it was a legacy. It had no substance.

  Change was so slow and the City was suffocating. Few native Xeteskians had left to enjoy the freedom granted them by the latest Lord of the Mount as his first action on assuming the mantle of the College's ruling mage. And in the twelve years since, Styliann had encountered nothing but reluctance to cast aside the old ways, as if his people drew perverse comfort from living in fear of everyone they met. Yet now, his failure to change the collective will and mind of his people could work to his advantage.

  Styliann was an imposing figure, well in excess of six foot, with the body of a forty-year-old disguising his true age of somewhere over fifty. His hair, receding halfway across his skull, was long, dark and brushed hard into a ponytail that reached beyond his shoulders. He wore dark trousers and a shirt of deepest blue, and his cloak of office, gold-trimmed black, was draped about his shoulders. His nose was long and thin, his jaw set harsh and his cold green eyes scared all they looked upon.

  “I take it she escaped Terenetsa unharmed?” asked his companion across the fireplace.

  Styliann blinked several times and shook his head to clear his mind of his reverie. He regarded Nyer, a senior aide and archmage, for a few moments, remembering the old maxim concerning where to keep your friends and enemies. He thought he had Nyer, a wily political animal and sharp thinker, placed about right.

  “Yes, she did. Just. And she's now well clear.” He shivered at the memory of his recent contact with Selyn, anxious for the mage spy's safety. Even under a CloakedWalk, she had been at risk from those she watched and the manner of her escape from Terenetsa, a small Wesmen farming community not far west of the Blackthorne Mountains, would trouble his dreams that night. He reached a slightly tremulous hand down to a low table and picked up his wine, a deep and heavy red that had not kept as well as he'd hoped. He felt tired. Communion over such a range sapped the strength and he knew he would need to visit the catacombs for prayer later that evening.

  “But something is troubling you, my Lord.”

  “Hmm.” Styliann pursed his lips, knowing any reluctance to speak would be taken by Nyer as a personal slight. He couldn't afford that. Not yet. “She saw everything we have been fearing. The Wesmen are subjugating villages near the Blackthornes. She heard the Shaman offer them life for crops and obedience. The evidence is just overwhelming. They are massing armies, they are united and the Shaman magic is strong.”

  Nyer nodded, pushing his hand through his long greying hair.

  “And Parve?” he asked.

  “I have asked her to travel there.”

  “Selyn?”

  “Yes. There is no one else and we must have answers.”

  “But, my Lord—”

  “I am well aware of the risks, Nyer!” snapped Styliann. His expression softened immediately. “My apologies.”

  “Not at all,” said Nyer. He placed a comforting hand briefly on Styliann's knee.

  “We must be so careful now,” said Styliann after another sip of wine. “Are our Watchers sure the Wytch Lords are still held?”

  Nyer breathed out, a long, sighing sound. “We believe so.”

  “That isn't good enough.”

  “Please, Styliann, let me explain.” Nyer's use of his Lord's name was against protocol but Styliann let it go. Nyer was an old mage who rarely followed etiquette. “The spells to determine that the Wytch Lords are still in the mana cage are complex and are nearing completion for this quarter. Delays have been caused through unusually high activity in the interdimensional space in which the cage is located.”

  “When will we have an answer?” Styliann pulled an embroidered cord next to the fireplace.

  “In the next few hours. A day at most.” Nyer raised his eyebrows in apology.

  “You know it's only a matter of time, don't you?”

  “My Lord?”

  “The evidence is all there.” Styliann sighed. “The unification of the Wesmen tribes, Shamen at the head of war parties, armies building in the southwest…”

  “Must it be the Wytch Lords?”

  “You don't really need me to answer that question, do you?” Styliann smiled. Nyer shook his head. There was a knock at the door.

  “Come!” barked Styliann. A young man entered, short red hair riding above a face taut with trepidation.

  “My Lord?”

  “Bring up a fire and another bottle of this rather average Denebre red.”

  “At once, my Lord.” The young man left.

  The two senior mages paused in their conversation, contemplating the future and not liking what they saw.

  “Can we stop them this time?” asked Nyer.

  “I fear that rather relies on your man,” replied Styliann. “At least as much as the timing of the Wytch Lords’ escape. He has reported, I take it?”

  “He has, and we now hold the amulet.”

  “Excellent!” Styliann slapped the arms of his chair with the palms of his hands and rose. He walked over to the window, hardly daring to ask his next question. “And?”

  “It is Septern's amulet. We can make progress now, assuming we get the right help.”

  Styliann breathed deeply and smiled as he looked out of his Tower high above the College. The Tower dominated the College and its encircling balcony gave him unrivalled views of the City and its surrounds. The night was cool but dry. A thin cloud was bubbling up from the southeast, threatening to obscure the countless thousands of stars whose pale light pinpricked the dark. The smell of oil fires and the heat of the City wafted on a slight breeze, not unpleasant to the senses. Beyond the College walls, the quiet was growing.

  Styliann's Tower was encircled by those of his six Mage Masters but stood far taller. Looking down, he saw lights burning in Laryon's Tower too. The most recently appointed Master, he was a man who would now have to join the inner circle, completing the seven-tower bond.

  “This could mean everything to us,” he said.

  “Laryon has worked hard,” said Nyer, coming to his side. “He has earned the credit.”

  “And your man. He'll see the necessary help is obtained?”

  “I have every confidence.”

  Styliann nodded and gazed out over Xetesk, at ease that his people would obey his every order without question. The first step had been successfully taken but now the way would become fraught and those who knew enough would have to be kept close.

  “I think, Nyer, that when the wine arrives, we may permit ourselves a small celebration.”

  She lay back on the bed again, the pounding in her head bringing sweeping nausea through her body. She shuddered, prayed that she'd been sick for the last time but not really believing she had.

  Every muscle ached, clotted with pain, every tendon strained. Her skin felt so tight across her chest it would split if she dared breathe in deep, and her shallow, gasping intakes drew whimpers as they stretched her tortured lungs. It would subside. However, having no idea how long she had been out, she had no idea when the symptoms would fade.

  But the physical pain coursing through her body
was as nothing to the well in her heart and soul, opened by the loss of her sons. Her reason to live. For them, her body quaked and shivered. She reached out with her mind, striving to touch theirs but knowing she could not and cursing her decision to delay the teaching of communion.

  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-thre
e and he's the oldest! What are you talking about?”

  “How many hired men do you know who are over thirty and still frontline quality?”

  Hirad drew breath. “Well, not many but, I mean…we're different. We are The Raven.”

  “Yes, we are The Raven. And we're getting too old to fight.”

  “You're kidding! We hammered that lot yesterday.”

  “That's the way you saw it, is it?” Hirad nodded. Sirendor smiled. “I somehow thought you might. The way I saw it is we didn't have our edge.”

  “That's because we spend too much time standing and watching. Like I said, if we don't do it, we'll lose it.”

  “Gods, Hirad, you're stubborn in the face of the facts. Do you think it's a coincidence that we've slowly taken fewer front-line contracts and more advisory and back-up jobs over the last couple of years?” Hirad said nothing. “What we had, that edge, has gone. When we were called in yesterday, we almost weren't up to it.”

  “Oh, come on, Larn…”

  “Ras died?!” Sirendor looked around, then lowered his voice. “You could have died. Richmond made an unbelievable mistake and Ilkar lost the shield. If it hadn't been for The Unknown we could have been wiped out. Us. The Raven!”

  “Yeah, but the explosion…”

  “You know as well as I do that two years ago we'd have been through them and at the mage before he had time to cast that spell. We have to adapt…” Sirendor trailed off. He took a gulp of his coffee. Hirad just stared at him.

  “Hirad, I want us to be able to look back on the good days in another ten years’ time. If we try and keep The Raven going as it is, there won't be any ten years.”

  “One dodgy fight and you want to give up.”

  “It's not just about one fight. But yesterday was a warning of what could happen any time. We've seen the signs these past two years. We all have. It's just that you chose to ignore them.”