Nightchild

Chapter 12

There it was. Quite unmistakable. Like the first breath of wind on a becalmed sea. And again.

Far to the south, north of Calaius, the mana spectrum was in flux. This far away, the movement was slight but its very abnormality was its fascination and its betrayer.

The experienced mage could sense the casting of spells throughout Balaia with the mind tuned to the base spectrum, brief oases of order rising from total chaos. But these eddies were altogether different, almost alien and undoubtedly emanating from a collapsing static spell. Interpretation was still difficult, though. They were slight, mere nudges at the random whole.

The Dordovan master, Gorstan, stood and sensed until he was completely sure. This was not Balaian magic. It had a quality of completeness even in its distress, that he could not have achieved. This was magic from another power, a greater power, and through his distaste, he felt awe.

Gorstan turned, reattuning his eyes to the dull grey light from the heavy Balaian sky.

T have them,' he said.

Selik smiled, a twisted sneer affecting only half his disfigured face.

'How far?'

Gorstan shrugged. 'Days. It's impossible to be more accurate from here but I suspect its base to be in the Ornouth Archipelago.'

'If you'll excuse me, Gorstan.'

'With great pleasure,' replied the Dordovan. Selik nodded curtly and swept away, the hood of his cloak back over his face, two aides by his sides.

Gorstan watched him go then turned back towards the south,

head down, eyes fixed on the ripples on the largely still waters of the River Arl as it fed into the Southern Ocean.

He supposed Vuldaroq was right and that Selik was a useful ally for now. But he couldn't help thinking that Dordover would be forever mired by their now open contact with the Witch Hunters. Gorstan was nominally in charge of the one hundred mages and two hundred foot now billeted all around Arlen and it wasn't hard to sense the nervousness among the sleepy port's populace. And, with rumours of Xetesk on the way, backed by Protectors, he wondered whether it wasn't really Selik who was driving it all.

Vuldaroq was due in Arlen shortly and the sooner he arrived, the better.

Hirad, The Unknown and Ilkar led their four horses into Grey-thorne late in the evening. Cloud still hung heavy in the sky, the wind whipping across open land. Everywhere, the ravages of the wind had been evident as they had ridden in: flattened plains grass, interspersed with sections of dirt where stalks had been torn out at the roots and, here and there, the corpses of animals and even two people that none of the survivors had yet found.

They had been a middle-aged couple, huddled together inside a barn that had collapsed on top of them, crushing their bodies beneath thatch and beam. Ilkar had spotted them as The Raven had ridden past to see if they could help. All that was left for them was a burial.

Not long after leaving Thornewood, they'd come across a ragtag column of refugees heading south to Gyernath from Rache in the north. Rache had been struck by gales off the Northern Ocean and a massive mudslide from surrounding hills. It had engulfed most of the town, burying many alive. Those that had survived had fled, believing it would be safer in Gyernath, a warm, tranquil southern port. The Raven hadn't the heart to tell them that nowhere was safe.

The last leg of the journey had been slow and largely silent, each of them brooding on what they had seen and heard on the road. Greythorne was the worst of it.

As The Raven approached, the multiple lights had given them hope that the quiet market town had escaped the hurricane. But closer to, the gathering gloom could not obscure the reality.

What Hirad thought were sloping roofs revealed themselves as part-collapsed walls, leaving angles of broken stone spearing into the sky. The lattice of swept cobbled streets that ran to the market place was filled with rubble and debris. Dust blew through the town and the only roofs standing were tented ones, raised as emergency shelter.

The Raven had seen this sort of destruction before, albeit not on such a scale, but it was the people that brought home the horror of what had befallen Greythorne.

Although the hurricane must have struck two or three days before, the shock was only now setting in. Hirad could well imagine what had happened in its immediate aftermath. Adrenalin and panic would have banished fatigue as teams of survivors battled to find loved ones, free the trapped and salvage anything useful. Indeed, stacks of crates under skins and canvas spoke of the scale of the effort.

But the first night without proper shelter, sleeping in the ruins of once proud houses and, following that, the first dawn, would have sapped wills and leached morale away. Those awash with energy the previous night would have woken dark-eyed and exhausted as they looked on their town, and realised that all they were going to uncover now were bodies.

And this is how they were. Faces streaked with dirt, men and women worked as hard as they could but the spirit was gone. Eyes were wide and uncomprehending, still disbelieving.

They walked past a child wrapped in a blanket and sitting under a small, staked-out leather bivouac. No more than five, he was too traumatised even to cry. He just sat, stared and shivered. The Gods only knew what he had seen and the fate of his parents.

Walking into the main square, The Raven, who had been largely ignored, saw signs of the organisation behind the desperately slow but determined activity. The town hall and grain store were gone but for a corner which still supported windows, their glass reflecting lantern light like malevolent multifaceted eyes. An open-fronted marquee was pitched below it, lit up like daylight, and within, men and women swarmed around tables marking maps and parchments or prepared hot and cold food and drink.

In the centre of it all, sat a man bandaged around the right eye

and right leg. Even from twenty yards, he was pale and haggard, a deep-etched face, grey hair and a drained body fighting hard against exhaustion.

'We need to speak to him,' said The Unknown.

'You two go on. I'll find somewhere for the horses,' said Ilkar.

The Unknown nodded and he and Hirad walked into the warm tented space to be stopped by a young man, scared and tired.

'Out-of-towners? Come to help?' he asked, long blond hair hanging all over his pale, thin features.

'We are The Raven,' said The Unknown by way of reply. 'We're looking for Denser.'

The young man drew in a sharp breath.

'He said you'd be coming.' He nodded them on towards the bandaged seated man. Hirad put a hand on his shoulder.

'And yes, if we can do anything to help, we will.'

A smile brought a spark of life to his bloodshot eyes.

'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you.'

The Unknown walked up to the man who still wore his mayoral chains and dark green cloak of office around his shoulders. He put out a shaky hand which The Unknown took and shook warmly.

'Gannan. At least you're alive.'

'Barely, Unknown, barely. I'd say it was good to see you but I fear your appearance here has little to do with salvage and much to do with the causes of all this mess.'

Ilkar had walked up to Hirad's shoulder.

'Is there anyone he doesn't know?' whispered Hirad.

'Apparently not,' replied the elf. 'I've left the horses with a local. There's a makeshift picket and stable in the west of the town.'

The Unknown ignored them.

'You've spoken to Denser?' he asked.

'Not at great length, but yes.' Gannan shifted on his chair, using both hands to adjust the position of his injured leg. 'He's very agitated, Unknown. Not making too much sense.'

'Where is he? We need to speak to him.'

Gannan gestured towards a table nearby. 'Some refreshment first, surely?'

'No,' said The Unknown. 'Save it for your people. We'll find our own.'

'He was behind the grain store a while back, wanting some peace and quiet. You could try there.'

'Thanks Gannan, we'll talk later.' He turned away. 'Hirad, you staying or coming?'

Hirad shrugged. 'I've got to talk to him sometime. It may as well be now.'

The Unknown nodded. 'Good.' He led the way outside.

The grain store had butted on to the town hall but was little more than a pile of rubble. Beyond it, to the north end of Greythorne, the activity and light were lessened, though the devastation was equally as severe. Clearly, there were simply not enough survivors to work everywhere.

But someone was moving through the debris, punctuating the windblown quiet with the shifting of slate and the grating of stone on stone.

'Denser,' said Ilkar, pointing away into the gloom.

For a time, Hirad couldn't make him out against the drab, dark background, then he saw his head move.

Denser was crouched in the rubble of what had probably been a house. Timbers were scattered around and slate, thatch and stone was piled where the corners of the walls still stood, defiant. He was holding something and, as they moved closer, they could see it was a tiny human hand.

He appeared not to notice them as they approached, just held the hand in one of his and stroked it gently with the other. Close too, over the noise of the wind, Hirad could hear he was murmuring but couldn't make out the words.

'Denser?' The Unknown's tone was soft. The Dark Mage started and turned to them, his face streaked with tears, his eyes black holes in the shadow of the night.

'Look what she's done,' he whispered, his voice choked and thick. He swallowed. 'This has gone too far.'

Ilkar crouched by him. 'What are you talking about?'

Denser indicated the hand in his. Ilkar followed it. It belonged to a young boy, no more than five, though in truth it was hard to tell. His head had been crushed by falling stone.

'You can't blame Lyanna for this,' he said.

'Blame Lyanna?' Denser shook his head. 'No, but she's the cause

of it all. You can feel what drives the wind even now. Imagine it fifty times as strong and tearing down your walls. It's a miracle any of them lived. If anyone's to blame, it's me and Erienne.'

'I don't think it's that simple,' said Ilkar. He shifted his position and took the child's hand from Denser's unresisting fingers and placed it back in the rubble.

'Only I can stop this thing. Only me,' said Denser, his eyes wild, his voice wavering. 'You have to get me to her. You have to.'

'I think it's time you stopped torturing yourself and came away from here.' Ilkar looked up. 'Reckon we can find anywhere private?'

Hirad shrugged. 'If we build it ourselves.' Ilkar's eyes flashed anger. 'We'll sort something out. C'mon, Denser. Time you had a hot drink.'

Every covered and sheltered space was crammed with people, the very young, the injured and the precious few carers. The Raven walked out of the centre of the town and laid a fire in a scrabbled together circle of stone from a building that had been cleared of any victims. With borrowed water heating in The Unknown's old iron jug, Denser calmed a little but his hands were jittery and his attention wandered fitfully.

'Surprised you're even here, Hirad,' he said, attempting a smile. Hirad didn't return it.

T wouldn't be but Sha-Kaan needs the Al-Drechar. Apparently ancient mages are the last chance now everyone else has let him down.'

'Can we leave that for another time?' Ilkar's voice was pained. 'How long have you been here, Denser?'

The Xeteskian shrugged. 'A day. I was delayed. There's so much mess. I had to try and help, didn't I?'

'You can't hold yourself responsible,' said Ilkar.

'Can't I? Isn't this what Erienne and I wanted? The Child of the One. Balaia's most powerful mage.' He spat out the words. 'But she's out of control and we must stop her. I must stop her.'

Ilkar looked at The Unknown and Hirad. 'What did I tell you?'

The Unknown nodded. 'If he believes it too, then I guess I'm prepared to. But that doesn't change why I'm here, and don't you forget it. Denser, we'll find her and help her control this. Or rather, you will, if you say so. Ilkar's explained it may be her Night.'

'And what will be left when dawn breaks for the Night Child, eh?' Denser swept an arm around him. 'Just look at this place. All the death. And I've heard the other stories. They're all over the town. Not just what we've seen. This is happening everywhere.'' He put his head in his hands. 'Magic has done this. That's what the survivors are saying here. But it's not just that, is it? It's my daughter. Mine. You've got to get me to her.'

'Come on, Denser, calm it down now. You need some rest. Hirad, we need a hot drink for him,' said Ilkar.

Ilkar sat back and let the silence roll over them all. Denser was biting back more tears. The Unknown and Hirad presumably were digesting Denser's words. There seemed little more to say and Ilkar found he'd lost the energy. He hoped that daylight would bring some level-headed talk.

But it was a long time until daylight.

All was not right. Thraun had left the remnants of the pack in safety, hidden deep within Thornewood, in a shallow den dug under a stand of trees the wind hadn't managed to destroy. He had chosen to scout Greythorne where the humans lived. To forage for food and look for any sign of the ones with the mist he recognised from a dim and confused past.

But when he'd arrived, with night full and blustery under a sky hidden by cloud, all he'd found was more sorrow and more destruction. He'd sat on a rise above the town, gazing down, his lupine heart beating strangely as if sympathetic to a race he considered a threat. There would be no food. No fowl to take, no dog or cat to chase down, no scraps from the tables of the humans discarded in alleyways.

Because though it was night, the town still moved as if it was day. Men carried stone from fallen buildings. Lifeless bodies, once exposed, were moved to an open space in the centre of the town and everywhere, lanterns and torches dazzled his eyes. He could not risk venturing in -he didn't want to bring the hunters back to Thornewood.

And so he had returned to the pack but decided on a different route to the new den, hoping for a kill. It was there that he had found them. Tour humans, two killed by metal and two by something else, their faces telling of sudden terror and brief agony.

But there was something more. A scent in the air and on the leaves

that he recognised, a cleanliness in the kills and a residual knowledge within him that sparked into life. He knew who had done this. He could taste them in the air. It had to be linked with the two he had seen in Thornewood before the wind had come. They and their tree-shadow people.

Thraun stopped, his mind clearing slowly. Thornewood felt bad. Not because of the breaking of so much, but because of how it had happened. The suddenness, the wind out of all keeping with all that was natural and its links to the mist he could sense but never touch or feel around him.

And that sense of wrong was still everywhere. With every gust his heart lurched, and with each drop of rain he feared flood from a clear sky. It had to be stopped. The threat to the pack had to be removed. And somehow, those humans he recognised so faintly were involved. Perhaps they sought what he now sought. Perhaps they didn't. But one thing was clear, he couldn't stay in Thornewood and live on hope alone.

Thraun had always known he was different from the rest of the pack. He understood things. He didn't get damaged. He felt a curious kinship with humans that led him to forbid the pack to hunt them. Now, though, he needed the wolves.

His mind set, he trotted back to the pack, left the cubs with the female least able to fight and took the rest back towards Greythorne.

Somewhere out there were the answers.

Hirad was poking at the fire, sending new flame spiralling into the air and embers scattering. Beyond the fire, the night was anything but quiet. Although it wasn't raining, the wind was blowing more cloud across the sky and, closer to the ground, savage gusts were whipping up dust, mourning around the broken ruins of Grey-thorne's once proud homes.

Down in the centre and south of the town, the lanterns still burned as the work to uncover the dead continued. Hirad had enormous admiration and pity for the townspeople who clung to each other for what support they could get, while their inner strength drove them to sift the ruins for their dead so that those who survived could begin to live again,

Hirad added another dried-out branch to the fire and looked away from the town centre to those he guarded. The Raven. It felt

undeniably good. He hadn't imagined ever watching over Denser, Ilkar and The Unknown again, yet here he was, and their sleeping postures said everything about their confidence in him.

There were so many memories to recall, he didn't know where to begin. He hooked the hot pot off the fire and refilled his mug, the soaking herbs Ilkar had gathered good enough for one last infusion.

A gust of wind played across the campsite, sifting through the cloaks and furs of his friends as they slept, the whispering pickpocket that stole nothing. He smiled, recalling the countless times he'd seen it before.

But the smile died as his eyes rested on Denser's form. Because the gust had gone, yet the riffling went on, his cloak moving under the order of some unseen hand. Unseen.

He'd witnessed more magic than most non-mages would see in a lifetime and he knew a CloakedWalk attack when he saw it. Mindful that the mage, who would be moving very slowly around Denser to avoid becoming visible, would not be alone, Hirad stood leisurely, his gaze never slipping entirely from Denser, his mind framing the likely position of the mage-thief.

Denser was the other side of the fire from him, with The Unknown to his left and Ilkar his right. Hirad stretched, his heart rate increasing. Another gust blew across the ruins. Hirad half-turned as if to look down in to Greythorne, swung back, took a single pace and launched himself across the fire.

Fists clenched and arms outstretched, he dived to land beyond Denser's body but connected with the Cloaked mage's shoulder and upper back as he bent to steal. Hirad heard the mage grunt in surprise and suddenly he was there; a long figure, dressed in close-fitting black clothes, his arms flailing as the barbarian slammed him to the ground.

'Raven! Mage attack!' called Hirad as he landed, hands grappling for a hold. The mage was fast, sinewy and supple, scrabbling furiously and jamming an arm between himself and Hirad, pushing the barbarian away.

Hirad rolled again, letting go his grip and coming to a half crouch, seeing the mage still disorientated and, behind him, The Raven surging to wakefulness. The mage made to run but Hirad was

quicker, lashing out a leg to trip him, the mage tumbling head over heels, sprawling in the dust.

The Raven man jumped after him, the mage quickly on to his feet and facing the barbarian. He swung a fist which Hirad ducked, stepping inside the man's long reach to slam a punch into his midriff and follow up with a left hand which caught him square on the nose. Hirad felt it crack under his fist and felt the blood wet and warm on his hand.

The mage staggered back, gasping in pain. Hirad went after him, double jabbing to the mouth with his left and swinging with his right in a hook that the mage swayed away to avoid. Hirad squared up but never landed his next punch, taken off his feet by a body slamming into his side.

He tumbled to the ground, aware of shouting and seeing another figure all over his vision as he rolled. He heard The Raven shouting.

'Three! There are three!' Denser shouted.

A sword was drawn. Hirad saw the glint of metal and blocked instinctively left to right, connecting with a forearm. He scrambled back, trying to gauge his surroundings, seeing people everywhere.

Denser shouted something unintelligible and rage filled the space. In front of Hirad, his attacker jumped to his feet but doubled over as soon as he straightened. Hirad felt the spray of blood over his face and the man collapsed.

'Gods!' he shouted, getting to his feet and looking for the mage with the broken nose but Denser had seen him first.

'Bastards!' shouted Denser. The Xeteskian swept by Hirad, bloodied sword raised to bring it down, again and again.

'Stop! Stop!' The Unknown was shouting.

By Hirad, the other mage lay writhing, clutching his side, screaming his agony. Hirad lashed a foot into his face to quiet him while behind, the dull thud of metal on dead meat sounded in his ears.

'It's over. Denser, it's over!' The Unknown again.

'No!' shouted Denser.

'It is over!' The Unknown's voice had finality about it and quiet reigned.

Hirad dusted himself down. He flexed his fists, feeling the knuckles and rubbing at the soreness he found.

On the ground near him, the body of one mage lay twisted in the

rubble. His kick to the face had snapped the man's neck but given the gaping wound in his back, it was probably a blessing. A few paces away, a second body. There was blood everywhere. In the garish light of the fire, it glistened on seemingly every stone, trailed over the churned mud and slicked in pools by the bodies. The third was nowhere to be seen and Hirad drew his sword, staring around into the night.

'The third one's still out there somewhere,' he warned.

'He won't be back,' whispered Denser. 'He knows we'll be waiting.'

Denser still stood over his second victim, blood dripping from the blade he clutched, dragging in huge breaths, his head down, face blank. The Unknown and Ilkar stood near each other and to Denser's left. Neither had drawn a weapon and both looked on in almost comical shock at the carnage Denser had so quickly wrought.

'Denser, it's time to clean and sheath,' said The Unknown quietly.

The Xeteskian nodded and knelt to wipe his sword on the dead mage. They watched him make his very deliberate movements and walk back to the fire to retrieve his scabbard, refusing to catch their eyes. He sat on his bedroll and stared into the fire.

'Who were they?' asked Hirad.

'Dordovans,' said Ilkar.

'Assassins,' grated Denser.

T don't think so,' said Hirad. 'Or it'd be your blood on the ground, not theirs. What the hell happened to you?' He gestured at the bodies and walked back into the warmth of the fire, Ilkar and The Unknown joining him. T can't believe you did this.'

Denser shrugged. 'They attacked, we defended.'

'Interesting angle,' said Ilkar. 'Someone else might say you ran after an unarmed man and hacked him half to pieces.'

'They didn't attack,' said Hirad. 'They wanted something from you.'

Denser looked at Hirad, his fury still burning. 'And they didn't get it.'

'Didn't get what?' asked The Unknown.

'It doesn't matter,' said Denser, hand reflexively touching his stomach.

'No?' Hirad saw the wildness in Denser's eyes and chose to keep himself calm. 'It mattered to the Dordovans. And it mattered enough for you to kill them.'

'That's not why I killed them.'

'Then tell us,' said The Unknown. 'You're keeping secrets from us again and, again, we couldn't be prepared. You're putting us at risk and that's not The Raven's way.'

'Gods, you sound like Hirad,' said Denser.

'That's because, on this, he's dead right,' said Ilkar, adding his weight. 'We need to know, Denser. And we'll sleep easier if we know now.'

The Xeteskian raised his eyebrows and nodded, somehow making it a grudging gesture.

'The Prophecy wasn't all translated. And I was curious. So I took the pages that weren't translated to Xetesk and found out Dor-dover's intentions, all right?'

Hirad breathed out sharply and looked down into the town. Lights were weaving through the streets, heading their way. Not surprising. The screams of the dying mage were bound to have been heard despite the wind. At least it would keep the third mage away. He sheathed his sword and sat down.

'And you thought this little snippet not important enough to mention?' said Ilkar, voice quiet but angry. 'You've put us at risk ever since we left Dordover and didn't bother to mention it. Thanks very much.'

T didn't think they'd find out,' said Denser.

'That isn't the point,' said Hirad. T hope it was worth it.' He looked over at Denser and could see that, to him, it was.

'If they get hold of my daughter now, they'll conduct a ritual spell sacrifice. They'll murder her but they won't do it quickly. She'll die in agony. And I won't let that happen. Enough for you?' Denser stared back into the fire.

'For now,' said The Unknown.

Hirad looked at the big man. He suspected there was more. Time would tell but he was seldom wrong. Right now, though, with the lanterns bobbing nearer, there was some explaining to do.

Erienne knew they had made good speed but to her their passage still felt so slow. She knew it was her anxiety but the nagging feeling wouldn't go away. She'd have blown into the sails herself but the stiff wind whipping white horses across the surface of the water, and without doubt a product of Lyanna's mind, was obviously power enough. Indeed at times, the captain of the Ocean Elm could be seen frowning out from the wheel deck, confused as to the direction of the wind which didn't necessarily accompany cloud or follow its direction.

But he was a skilful sailor, used to the vagaries of the Southern Ocean and the tides around Calaius; and though clearly irritated by the conflicting information he could see and feel, had enough faith in his judgement and kept the sails full.

Erienne had risen with the first signs of dawn, as she had each morning, marvelling at the sight of light breaking across the eastern horizon as she stood at the bow, dressed in thick woollen breeches, shirt and cloak. This morning, she could see Balaia on the horizon. It was a clear, bright day without a hint of haze and the sight boosted her spirits, quelling the impatience that Ren'erei had found both funny and frustrating.

'Be calm,' she had said. 'There's nothing you can do. The wind and the ship are beyond your control. If you relax your mind, the days will pass more quickly.'

Erienne smiled and half-turned to see the pretty young elf standing on the wheel deck next to the captain. She had tried to teach Erienne mind-calming exercises which were surprisingly similar to those taught at the Colleges to mages suffering severe mana drain. Ren'erei asked her to think of her tensed mind as a muscle, cramped by fatigue, before imagining it slowly unwinding and stretching, then feeling the cool wash of blood begin to flow again.

She knew she could do it, she just didn't want to, and her smiling admission had caused Ren to throw up her arms and stalk away.

Now, of course, Erienne wished she'd tried harder. She was tired, having not had a solid night's sleep since leaving Herendeneth. Lyanna's cries of pain and fear still echoed around her skull in the dead of night and her own anxiety surfaced to wake her a dozen times from her rest.

She'd survive. The coastline was looming large and the trip up the

river to Arlen quick, if the captain timed the tide well. Erienne had no doubt that he would.

Her emotions were so mixed. She was desperate to see Denser but feared his reaction after so long out of contact. She needed his strength and thought but disliked the admission of failure it had come to represent within her. And she still thrilled at the prospect of standing with The Raven once again despite knowing the confidence it would give her was entirely unfounded. After all, how could they possibly help? She had to smile at that. They had achieved enough against the odds to make the question ridiculous. The fact was, they'd find a way.

There would be problems, though. She knew Ilkar would be ethically opposed to a return to the One and she could well understand the conflicting thoughts that would be running through his mind. Perhaps he wouldn't even be with them. But somehow, she thought he wouldn't miss it – if only to ensure right was done by his College. As for Denser, well, Denser's College had a vested interest and they'd no doubt be irritated he wasn't working directly with them. But he was a father before he was a Xeteskian and he'd fight his own College if he thought they threatened Lyanna. And in that, as in so much, Erienne and he were one.

But through all her feelings at what she would find back in Balaia, her strongest tie was to the child she had been forced to leave behind. Poor Lyanna. The innocent in a game with no rules, no defined sides and no obvious way to win. Erienne yearned to see her little face, her delightful smile and her beautiful eyes. And she feared that if this mission went astray, and the Dordovans found Heren-deneth, she would not.

The strengthening wind drove the bow of the Ocean Elm into the next wave, sending spray flying into the air and across the foredeck. Erienne wiped a film of water from her face, turned and walked to the wheel deck, her balance true and confident after six days at sea.

Trotting up the eight-ranged ladder she came to stand by Ren'erei, the elf smiling at her, green eyes sparkling.

'Getting a little rough down there, was it?' she asked.

'No. It's just that I've already washed this morning, that's all,' she returned. 'How close are we?'

The Captain turned to her, reddened face pinched, his strong

hands rocks on the wheel. 'A day and a half, no more. Less if we go upriver through the night and I have a mind to.' His voice was melodic and gentle, so different from when he bellowed orders to his crew.

Erienne nodded. 'Then it's time I tried to contact Denser. I'll be in my cabin and I need to not be disturbed.'

'Then I'll be standing outside the door.' Ren'erei's face was solemn.

'You don't have to.' Erienne smiled.

'Nevertheless.'

Erienne led the way below decks, turning to Ren'erei as she reached the door to her cabin.

'You should hear nothing,' she said. 'But even if you do, don't worry. Occasionally, dispersal of Communion is a little painful.'

'Good luck,' said Ren'erei.

'Thank you.' She closed the door, lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. As she settled into the mana spectrum, searching for the spike that she would recognise as Denser, she prayed he was within her compass and, more importantly, that he would answer her at all.

She was not to be disappointed.