Gods, how she missed him. His strength, his touch, his kiss. Not a day went by that she didn't look to the gates, wishing for him to ride through them. He'd know what to do, where to find the mages they needed to raise the Heart before it was too late. Perhaps he would still come. But news was so hard to come by with so few Julatsans in contact with the college and she'd heard nothing of his whereabouts for over a season. And every day without word chipped at her belief a little more.

'That's not possible,' said Lempaar at last. The oldest mage amongst them, he was an elf who had stayed clear of a disease that had claimed ten of his race and a fifth of the already small mage population. Only now was news filtering through that the disease had afflicted tens of thousands of elves on both continents before apparently running its course.

'We all felt it, Lempaar,' said Pheone. 'We all know what it means.'

It had been relatively short-lived. An abyss had opened up in each one of them, giving them a glimpse of an existence without the touch of mana. It had been terrifying. A void of unfathomable depth, of unbridgeable loss.

Pheone let her gaze travel slowly across the assembly. They all, like her, were trying desperately to argue themselves out of the obvious. Every teaching any of them had received on the subject had been clear. The Heart, they said, was the centre of Julatsan power but was not the portal between them and mana in itself. Losing it would be a terribly weakening blow but it would not end Julatsan magic, just make it more difficult.

So said the teachings.

'But they're wrong,' whispered Pheone.

'Who?' asked Lempaar.

'Everyone who ever taught us anything about the nature of Julatsan magic'

They were all looking at her. Waiting for her to tell them what to do next. It would have been funny had they not been facing catastrophe. She was unelected, leader only because she, like Ilkar, had a flair for organisation. It had been easy when there was so much work to do. But now the building and repair was done, bar the Tower, and they were facing a future that made weak roofs and dangerous structures insignificant issues. Now they faced losing the ability to interact with the mana spectrum. Julatsa was dying.

'We have to think straight,' Pheone said, trying to force her own thoughts into some semblance of order. 'There are steps we can take and we can't afford to give up. Not after all we've achieved.

'Lempaar, could you take as many people as you need and scour what texts we have for any hint of what is going on in the Heart? Maybe we can, I don't know, feed it or revive it in some way. Any-thing to prolong its life, if indeed it is the Heart that is the problem.

'Buraad, Massentii, Tegereen, we need a clear plan to get out our plea for help. Every Julatsan mage must have felt this. Every one of them must come here to help us raise the Heart.'

'We need so many,' said a voice from across the crater.

'Then we'd better start getting them here now,' replied Pheone.

'Why do you think we'll be more successful this time than before? We've asked, you know we have. So few answered. And now there's a war going on out there.' It was the same voice, from a mage who looked like they all must feel. Washed out. Lost.

‘Iknow. But we have to succeed. And at least the war has brought elves here from Calaius, though the Gods only know why. They are all Julatsan-trained and we have to make them understand what is at stake. What other choice do we have than to try? The alternative is unthinkable.

'Listen, we have to stand strong, support each other. Anyone not included in the library detail, probe the mana. Let's find out exactly how it feels to construct spells now. Can you shape as easily? That sort of thing. But be careful. We can't afford to lose anyone to a backfire.

'Is everyone clear?' Silence. 'Good, then let's get cracking. We'll talk again at dusk.'

*

Tessaya, Lord of the Paleon tribes of the Wesmen, looked down at the flowerbuds bursting through the earth at his feet, a smile unbidden on his lips. All around him, his village buzzed with activity. Water was being drawn from the wells, farmers were sharpening tools ready for the planting, dwellings were being re-thatched and strengthened. He could smell a freshness in the air. It was the smell of new life. It was the smell of hope, and hope was something his people craved.

Six years after the wars that had seen so many of the menfolk die fighting in the east, the mortal enemies of the Wesmen had sent more misery to haunt them, fractured as they were. To Tessaya it had appeared to be weather the like of which none had experienced in living memory. But his Shamen had smelled magic in the gales, the rain storms, the lightning that burned and in the earth that heaved and sucked the living down to hell.

Day after day they had been struck, and when the storms eased, they were roasted in hot suns. The crops had drowned or withered, the livestock had not bred and when winter had come, though the elements had ceased their battering, it was clear many would die.

Deep in the Heartlands, Tessaya had entrenched himself, calling surviving lords to him and pleading for a pooling of all they had. If, indeed, this was the work of the eastern mages, then their aim was to wipe out the Wesmen forever. Only by working together could they survive and come back stronger.

The lords had listened. Tessaya was the oldest among them and had survived wars with the east and tribal conflicts over two decades. He alone had gathered the tribes into a force strong enough to take on the east. And the lords, many of them new and scared, believed he could do it again.

But they had suffered through the winter. They had had wood to burn but nothing to cook above the flames. Animals had had to be kept alive to breed. Men, women and babes grew gaunt, and the weak and sick did not survive. Pyres burned daily on all the holy sites to remind them of their tenuous hold on life.

It was a time when the Shamen grew to a new stature. They preached the mercy of the Spirits and indeed, it seemed even to one as sceptical as Tessaya that they were not alone in their struggle. Perhaps the winter wasn't as harsh as they remembered. Perhaps the hunting parties found more wild game than they had a right to do. Perhaps the hardy berries and roots had spawned a naturally greater harvest.

Or maybe some force was giving them the tools to live.

Tessaya was happy for his people to believe what they wished. His pact with the tribal lords meant there was precious little theft of food, and that which took place was punished by staking and death. And as the days of cold crawled past, he could see a new determination growing within the Paleon. Where so recently he had seen the acceptance of weakness, now he saw the desire to live, and more importantly, to grow again. What the mages had sent, the Wesmen would turn into strength.

And now, with the new season upon them, and life returning to the hard soil in abundance, he could look forward again to a glorious future. While there would still be hardship until the next crops were gathered, at least there would be Paleon to take in the harvest. It would be a time of celebration like no other.

Tessaya grieved for all those he could not help. Those who chose to live beyond the Heartlands; and those already too far gone to live on will alone. But now his mind turned again, inevitably, to thoughts of conquest.

Because the Shamen had only been half right, if the stories he had been hearing these last days were true. Yes, the elements had been powered by magic. But they had not been sent by the colleges. And even more interesting, the destruction that had been visited on the cast was perhaps even more severe than they had suffered in the Heartlands. What state were their enemies in? Good enough to fight and win?