‘It is not the blessing you think it to be,’ said Auum sharply.
‘I’m sorry, Auum. I didn’t mean that quite the way it came out.’
Auum nodded. ‘I am certain you didn’t. But the nation is in peril. Old prejudices never die, they merely hide.’
‘You know Ilkar once said he almost wished he had never met a human much less befriended one. Hard to outlive those you love by so many hundreds of years, he said. It was the thing he feared the most.’
‘Your brother was right about that, just as he was right about many things.’
‘I can’t feel him,’ said Rebraal. ‘Is he safe?’
Auum sighed and shook his head. ‘We none of us can feel those we love. Last time it was the same. The dead were not safe. Many were lost to Shorth, never to be found again. I’m sorry.’
Expectant noise rippled across the crowd in the Caeyin. Robed elves hurried hither and thither across the stage. Auum trotted back out into the light. The TaiGethen arrived thus far assembled behind him.
‘It’s the priests,’ said one.
‘Early,’ said Ghaal in Auum’s ear.
‘That cannot be good,’ said Miirt.
A crescent of Al-Arynaar warriors and mages was advancing down the wide central aisle of the Caeyin. Behind them came seven separate groups of priests and attendants, each one guarded by two TaiGethen cells. At the rear, more Al-Arynaar. Auum could just see the silhouettes of ClawBound pairs at the entrance to the bowl. And at the head of the cliffs all around the Caeyin, more ClawBound appeared. Sentinels and messengers, waiting.
Auum spared the time to wish he were up there in glorious solitude rather than in front of a crowd that was swelling every moment.
‘They are not all here,’ said Ghaal. He pointed out into the midst of the approaching priests. ‘Ryish is missing.’
‘I expected it to be so,’ said Auum. ‘He would not leave his temple, not while the path to Shorth is obscured. We must assume he is lost.’
Quiet replaced expectancy. Out there, where the knowledge of why they had been summoned to the Harkening was incomplete, the nervousness was beginning to grow. For many, the significance of the priests’ early arrival was not lost. And anyone who cared to look at the stage to see it filling with TaiGethen and Al-Arynaar would be forgetting the food they had thought to cook. The last time Auum had been in the presence of so many of the warrior castes, they had been about to sail for Balaia. So it would be again.
When they reached the stone apron in front of the stage, the Al-Arynaar fanned out to guard its periphery. The apron, a huge slab of granite laid by the Gods, was carved with the elven religious hierarchy, depicting its many glories. Each group of priests moved to pray by its God’s symbols and images.
Yniss, father of them all; Tual, of the forest denizens; Gyal, of the rain; Beeth, of root and branch; Orra, of the earth’s lifeblood; Cefu, of the canopy, Ix, god of mana. All were represented, leaving a hole at their centre where Ryish should have been standing.
Everyone dropped to their knees, fingers grasping the ground or palms raised to the sky, spread like branches or covering their faces. Each elf was drawn to a lesser god in addition to Yniss. Each elf prayed. Whispering and chanting grew in harmony, amplified by the rock walls of the Caeyin. Caressing the mind and soothing away ache, pain and fear. Auum shed a tear for the beauty of the moment and for the knowledge that precious few remained.
While the prayers continued, the high priests moved onto the stage. Each wore robes of a single, simple colour and carried the words that blessed them with their authority sewn onto their robes and written in the leather-bound volumes in their arms. Auum felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up.
‘My Lord Auum, it is with gladness that I see you and with desolation that I know why.’
Lysael, High Priest of Yniss, had always been possessed of a beautiful voice. Beauty that spread to her face and the shape of her gentle hands.
‘Yniss keep you, Lysael. I am relieved you are here.’
‘Stand, Auum; you and your TaiGethen have no need to kneel before anyone, least of all the mere mouthpiece of a God.’
Auum stood and the two embraced. From the crowd he could hear cheering, and the chanting in the name of Yniss grew louder. Lysael kissed his forehead and stepped back. Her expression brought fresh tears to Auum’s eyes.
‘We cannot wait until the appointed day to perform this Harkening, ’ she said. ‘Let the ClawBound sing now.’
‘It will be done. And we’ll talk later.’
Auum moved past her to the front and centre of the stage. Few probably noticed him. Most were still engaged in prayer, chant and song celebrating the arrival of their priests. All but ignored, Auum turned to face the stone at the back of the Caeyin, spread his arms wide, tipped back his head and called to the ClawBound.
‘Jal-ea! Jal-ea! Jal-ea.’
On the second repetition, he held the ‘a’. The note boomed around the bowl, flying up the walls and into the darkening sky. It stilled song and chant and reduced prayer to a whisper. A ripple fled across the crowd and the ClawBound sang the final call to the Harkening.
It had no words. From the mouths of the panthers came a circulating low growl that echoed and layered in melancholy, from the Bound elves a sound from the top of the throat that ran up and down a scale of high pitch, modulating and harmonising. It cut through the air. It would travel through roof and wall. It would traverse the harbour and penetrate the timbers of every ship. None within earshot who heard it would deny the call. They could not.
The ClawBound would sing until night was full. And then all the elves gathered at Ultan-in-Caeyin would hear their fate.
Denser was aware that the four of them were attracting considerable attention. In one respect, it was what he wanted. The citizens needed to see their rulers taking the short walk along The Thread up to the Mount of Xetesk in apparent calm. Yet there was no disguising the tension that pervaded the streets. It had deepened even in the short time he had been in The Raven’s Rest.
The walk was uncomfortable. Hirad, naturally, was not helping in the slightest, and this stressful stroll was banishing any lingering doubts that he was who he affirmed.
‘For the last time, will you get your finger out of that wound?’ hissed Denser.
Hirad was grinning at the disgusted expressions on the faces of those for whom he had been staging his little demonstration. Again.
‘Sorry, my Lord Xetesk-man.’
‘And stop calling me that.’
‘Age hasn’t stopped you being grumpy, has it? Made it worse if anything.’
Hirad came to his shoulder. Denser glanced at Sol, who was walking slightly behind with Diera and fielding questions from those brave enough to approach him.
‘Yes, we do have reports. And the man next to our Lord of the Mount does claim to be one of them and we are going to ascertain his truth or falsehood. There will be a full statement nailed to every notice board in the city by dawn tomorrow. Please, until then, there is no need for fear. Xetesk will protect you whatever the outcome.’
Denser gripped Hirad’s arm. ‘Don’t you say a damned thing.’
‘I’m hurt,’ said Hirad. ‘I remember being known as the soul of discretion.’
Denser upped his pace a little. ‘Even for you, that is a poor joke. This is serious, Hirad. Let Sol do his job and we’ll talk about something else.’
‘All right. How by every God crying did two members of The Raven end up as Lord of the Mount and, unbelievably, king, respectively?’
‘You know neither of us really wanted what happened after the demons were beaten,’ said Denser.
He felt cold. It was always the same when the dark days resurfaced in his mind.
‘I believe that of Sol. Not so sure about you,’ said Hirad.
‘I’m really disappointed you think that of me.’
‘Oh come on, Denser. I may have spent my youth in the wilds of Rache and my best years trying not to die but I did pause to look around once in a while. And even I know that every Xeteskian mage aspires to the Mount. Why are you different?’
‘I’m not. And yes, I did aspire to the Mount but not in the way it happened. Because I didn’t want The Raven to be gone. But it has gone and we move on. And does not every man aspire to be king? To rule others?’
Hirad jerked a thumb at Sol. ‘In his case, no. Seems to me you’ve been shut in the Mount for too long.’
‘Seems to me you haven’t been dead long enough.’
Denser saw Hirad flinch. So hard to believe it really was him behind the mask of a murdered merchant; so hard to argue it wasn’t him having heard him speak of things none but Hirad would know. The heartbeat of The Raven, Sol always called him. He never had been good at tact, though.
‘Sorry, Hirad.’
Hirad shrugged. A line of fresh blood leaked from his wound.
‘It’s just that you weren’t here and you don’t understand what happened in the aftermath of the demon war.’
‘Being dead does take the edge off, doesn’t it?’
Denser sighed and stopped walking. ‘Whatever else you blame me for, don’t blame me for surviving, all right? If you’re bitter, fine, that’s your choice. Me and Sol, we’ve had to get on because it’s the only thing left to do. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish you were still alive. And not a moment goes by that I don’t want Erienne, my wife remember, to be beside me still. We’re trying to build something worth the sacrifice you and the rest of The Raven’s dead made that day. Wallowing in grief and bitterness won’t do it. Remembering your friends and those you loved that would lay down their life for you, that is what is behind every breath I take.’
‘Right, I get it,’ said Hirad. ‘Your wealth and position are things that you hate. A heavy burden you take on your shoulders for the good of us all. Well, we’ll see what you’re made of, won’t we? Because what’s coming at you is going to make the demons seem like irritating insects.’
Denser smiled. ‘It’s been a long decade and we have made great strides. Perhaps I should show you a few reasons why we shouldn’t get too worried about this enemy right now.’
‘Well my time dead hasn’t dampened Xeteskian complacency at all, has it?’
‘Let’s keep this for inside four walls, shall we?’ Sol’s voice stayed Denser’s next words. ‘And can we move on? I’ve become tired of repeating myself. We need to compose a city wide announcement.’
‘Yep, one that orders immediate evacuation,’ said Hirad.
‘Where to?’ Denser spread his arms. ‘Somewhere safer than within the walls of Balaia’s most powerful city? I’m sure we’d all love to know where this mystical place is.’
‘Denser . . .’ began Sol.
‘I don’t know,’ said Hirad. Tears had begun to fall down his cheeks. ‘I just know we can’t stay here and I want you to believe me before the pain inside gets too bad. Please, Denser, I don’t want to be here but I know I have to help.’
Denser stared at Hirad and sucked his lip, feeling about as tall as the pebble by his foot.
‘Let’s get to the Mount, shall we?’ he said.
There were a few people waiting at the gates of the college. All of them were plainly bodies of the recently deceased; and all of them were waiting for Denser and for Sol.
In a large meeting room in Denser’s tower sat The Raven. Or rather, the souls who had once made up The Raven now unhappily ensconced in other bodies. What struck Denser immediately was that some of them had never even met each other though they had all been part of Balaia’s most famous fighting team. What made him uncomfortable was that Sirendor Larn, who was currently seated next to Hirad, kept staring at him. He could understand the baleful expression. But mostly he just felt sad because this was an unwanted reunion for them.
The silence was stifling, adding to the already suffocating odours emanating from the assembled bodies that the opening of every window and balcony door had failed to address to any significant degree. While none of the bodies had ever been interred, each had brought with it the dirt of where it had fallen and in some cases the disease that had killed it. One of Denser’s mages had already cast a number of cleansing spells.
‘You know, it’s depressing to realise that so many Xeteskians die alone and lost,’ said Denser.
No one replied. The Raven were staring at one another, desperately trying to come to terms with their plight. The shadows on the walls from the steady light of lanterns picked out the true identity of each soul, but more than that, they all just knew too much to be any other than who they said they were. And, that done, they had lapsed into this confused quiet.
So much tragedy, so much irony too. Darrick the great cavalry general had found a body most unlikely to prove as competent in the saddle as he had been. Very tall and altogether too middle-aged. Died of a heart attack.
And Ren’erei too, lover of Ilkar, now sitting bewildered and scared, in pain and with nothing anyone could do about it, not in the short term. Her new body was that of a girl of about twelve. Pretty but for the sores across her face, evidence of the disease which had claimed her.