'Well met, Hirad,' said Nos-Kaan, his voice pained.

'How did the flight go?'

'Do you wish the truth?' asked the dragon. Hirad nodded. 'I must have the healing flows of inter-dimensional space or I will die. Before that I will be land-bound.'

Hirad was shaken. He had assumed the rest both Kaan had enjoyed these last two seasons in the warm climate on Herendeneth would cure them of the magical wounds they had suffered fighting the Dordovan mages.

'How long?'

'Another season, no more. I am weak, Hirad.'

'And you, Great Kaan?'

'I am in better health,' said Sha-Kaan. 'But death is inevitable if I cannot get home before too long. Where are your Unknown Warrior and his researchers?'

'He'll be here. He said he would.'

But Hirad had expected him before now. So long out of contact with the big man and he was beginning to fear something had happened to him. They had little news from Balaia – what they did get was through the incomplete knowledge of the Protectors – but none of it was good.

'Your loyalty is commendable,' said Sha-Kaan.

'He's Raven,' said Hirad, shrugging and standing. 'Time to check the sea for ships anyway.'

The truth was, he wanted to be alone for a moment. Only a season and Nos-Kaan would be dead. With the best will in the world, the research wouldn't have led to meaningful realignment spells by then. Nos-Kaan's grave was going to be Herendeneth.

He walked quickly down the slope, giving Erienne a wide berth and breaking into a trot as he passed the shored-up front doors of the house. The Protector, Aeb, stood at the entrance, unmoving, staring out northwards. Hirad nodded to him as he passed.

The single path down to the island's only landable beach wove through waving beech groves to the small, reefed inlet. It was a peaceful walk. The warm breeze through the trees rustled leaves; the calls of birds on the wing filtered through the branches as did the distant sound of waves on the shore. Despite what he'd just heard, Hirad found himself smiling. He turned a corner and it dropped from his lips.

'Gods burning,' he whispered, reaching instinctively for the blade he hadn't worn in a hundred days. He backed up the path.

Coming towards him were robed and cloaked men. Two dozen, maybe more. Mages. And where there were mages, there would be soldiers.

'Aeb!' he called over his shoulder. 'Darrick! We're under attack!'

One of the mages held out his hands towards Hirad. Casting, surely. Caught unable to run and hopelessly outnumbered, Hirad did the only thing he could. He attacked. Yelling to clear his mind, he flew at the mage, fists bunched, braided hair streaming out behind him.

'Hirad! Gods' sake calm down!' came a voice from beyond the group of mages, who had stopped and were looking at him in some alarm.

Hirad slid to a stop a few yards from them, kicking up dust.

'Unknown?'

He looked harder. The unmistakable shaven head was approaching, a woman at his side, Protectors around him. Lots of them. Relief flooded through Hirad and he blew out his cheeks.

'Gods drowning, you had me scared,' he said.

The mages parted and The Unknown walked through, his limp pronounced, a look of discomfort on his face.

'It's good to see you,' said The Unknown, crushing Hirad in an embrace.

'And you, Unknown. You're looking pale though. Brought the family to pick up some colour, have you?'

The Unknown laughed as he released Hirad, stepping back. Diera, her long fair hair tied back and strong beautiful face pale, came up to his side, Jonas squirming in her arms as he tried to see everything all at once. He fixed Hirad with a wary stare which the barbarian returned with a chuckle. The Unknown enveloped his family in one arm, pulling them close.

'Well, we've not had the luxury of relaxing in the sun these last two seasons,' he said. 'Unlike you, apparently.'

'It's not been quite like that,' said Hirad.

'I'm sure it hasn't,' said The Unknown.

'I'm forgetting my manners,' said Hirad. He leant forward and kissed Diera on the cheek then stroked Jonas's head. 'Good to see you, Diera. I see Jonas has got his father's hair sense.'

Diera smiled and looked down at her son's completely bald head. 'Hirad, he's not a year old, poor little boy. He had plenty of hair a season ago.'

Hirad nodded. 'It'll grow back, young man,' he said to Jonas. 'Probably. And how are you, Lady Unknown? Looking a bit tired if I may say.'

'Sea travel didn't agree with me,' she said.

'You should talk to Ilkar then. He's our expert on shipboard vomiting.'

'Hirad, you're disgusting,' admonished Diera gently. 'I just need a place to sleep that doesn't move about.'

'I expect we can find you somewhere.' Hirad looked back to The Unknown, tilting his head at the massed Protectors and Xeteskian mages.

'So what's going on?' he asked. 'Bit more than a research party, isn't it?'

The Unknown's humour faded and he shook his head.

'Much more,' he said. 'Look, we can't stay here. There's work for The Raven on Balaia.'

'Calaius first, I think.' Hirad showed the way up the path with a last look at the Xeteskians. 'Ilkar's not going to like this. Come on; let's get you up to the house.'

Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, Balaia's Dark College of magic, sat back in his favourite chair, leather-upholstered and deep. A fire warmed the chill late afternoon of early spring, filling his study with a yellow flickering light, augmenting the pale sun that shone through the window. A mug of herb tea steamed on a low table by his right hand.

He'd held Xetesk's highest office for more than six years now, a fact that truly astounded him. His ascension had been orchestrated by a powerful splinter group while the incumbent Lord, Styliann, had still been alive – an unprecedented series of events. Dystran had been aware that his tenure was intended to be brief and bloody, but circumstances and fortune had conspired in his favour.

Styliann had been killed, an invasion repelled and a period of calm demanded. It had left him alive but a puppet. The intervening years, though, had allowed him to build his own power base largely unopposed. The puppet master had become a subservient adviser and, while no Lord of the Mount was ever completely secure, Dystran had at least the respect of the Circle Seven, Xetesk's senior mages whose towers ringed the centre of the college.

And now, if Dystran was correct, Xetesk was on the verge of rightful dominion, though victory would be costly. The events leading to the unfortunate death of the Nightchild, Lyanna, had left a legacy of hatred and mistrust in the minds of non-mages. It was a disorganised threat and would be put down by aggressive magic when the time was right.

More positively, those same events had revealed the Al-Drechar. Dystran was determined to control them and the first steps were already in hand. A shame Dordover had chosen to fight him but, one way or another, war had been inevitable. As long as he could keep Lystern on the sidelines and Julatsa helpless, it was a war with only one possible winner.

Better even than the Al-Drechar, though, was a discovery his agents had made while studying texts on the complexities of natural elven links to the earth and magic. It had given him an idea, the successful fruition of which would very much hasten Xetesk's control over not just Balaia but Calaius too. He was impatient for progress but understood the need for care and secrecy, as did the former puppet master sitting across the fire from him.

The ageing Ranyl was not far from death yet retained a vitality and sharpness of mind that lit the eyes in his sagging face and belied his failing cancer-ravaged body.

'And when will we hear from the expedition?' asked Dystran.