Denser smiled. ‘If that’s the way you want to play it.’

‘No, Denser,’ said Hirad. ‘That’s the way it is. The moment you forget is the moment you’re on your own. Or dead.’

‘And Balaia would die with me,’ said Denser.

‘Yeah, well, we only have your word for that,’ said The Unknown.

Hirad nodded. Denser looked confused.

‘But I’m the only one who knows what we have to do,’ he said.

‘For now,’ said The Unknown. ‘But don’t worry, when we understand, we’ll have more to say about how we go about things. Be sure.’

There was quiet. Richmond’s fire crackled and a breeze rustled the upper branches. Night was all but on them. Denser knocked the bowl of his pipe against the roots of the tree.

‘If I might make a suggestion for discussion,’ he said slowly, ‘I think it’s time we got some sleep.’

Chapter 8

Segregation. Distrust. Suspicion. Mana. The air crackled with it all.

Triverne Lake lay at the base of the Blackthorne Mountains as the great range began its slow descent to the seas of Triverne Inlet over one hundred miles to the north. Touched by magic, the lake waters were sheltered, giving perfect conditions for the vibrant green trees that bordered it on three sides, leaving only the eastern shore open. Lush vegetation thrown with bright-coloured flowers provided a spectacular matting between the trunks and the rich life clung far up into the foothills before the cooler air running off the mountains let only hardier scrub, moss and heather grow plentiful. A multitude of species of birds flocked to the shores, their song and flight in every colour of the rainbow a sight to gladden the most barren heart.

The rain which periodically crashed over the Blackthornes and ran from its peaks in magnificent waterfalls all along its length never seemed to ruffle Triverne’s balance. Rivers ran beneath rock to feed the lake through every season and the waterfall which flowed in times of sustained rainfall splashed into a deep and glorious pool which overlapped the lake itself.

The surface of Triverne Lake on the day of the meeting was calm, an occasional breeze sending tiny surface ripples in every direction. The gentle lapping of the water on the shore should have completed the tableau of calm with the warm sun shining through a partly clouded sky.

But the Marquee ruined all that. Standing proud not fifty paces from the lake, it was the focal point of a tension so cloying it seemed to cling to clothes and deaden hair and skin.

The Marquee was a model of geometric perfection. It was exactly equal on each side, and had four entrances exactly equidistant from each other.

Awnings, each one coloured in a College livery, shaded the entrances, and protecting each awning was a phalanx of College Guards. A further phalanx stood inside each entrance.

Seated at identical square tables, immediately inside their respective entrances, sat the Masters and their delegations. For Lystern, Heryst, the Lord Elder. For Julatsa, Barras, Chief Negotiator and the College representative in Xetesk. For Dordover, Vuldaroq, the Tower Lord, and for Xetesk, Styliann, Lord of the Mount.

Each was flanked by two delegates, and as Styliann sat in his dark ermine chair, he gauged the mood of his - how would he describe them - contemporaries . . . or was it adversaries?

Barras, the Julatsan. An ancient elf he knew well. Impatient, irritable, intelligent. His clear blue eyes shone from his deeply lined face, his mane of white hair was tied back and draped across one shoulder, the fingers of his right hand, as always, drummed on the nearest surface, in this case the arm of his chair.

Heryst, the quiet man from Lystern. He sat back in his chair, his face darkened by the shadows cast by its wings. His long fingers were steepled and held just under his chin but otherwise he appeared relaxed and as at ease as was possible in this company. Styliann respected him for his careful counsel and for the fact that, at forty-five, he was the youngest Lord Elder Lystern had ever appointed. He saw parallels with himself, though his ascension had not been through such democratic means.

He sighed. Vuldaroq. Blubber and bluster. When riled, he fired with the speed of an elven arrow, but landed with the accuracy of a catapult round. Already red in the face, the Dordovan Tower Lord sat hunched forward, arms spread on the table in front of him, eyes squinting, his bulk squeezed into a chair that would surely have to be widened. And by the Gods, Styliann knew what that meant: a meeting of the College-appointed carpenters to assemble new chairs for them all. Damn the Dordovans and their petty equalities. Every time a stitch was added to a cloak it set debate back days.

But this time there could be no delays and no bickering or it would be the death of them all. And Styliann was determined that Xetesk, at least, would survive.

All eyes were upon Styliann. He checked his advisers were comfortable, sipped water from his glass and stood.

‘From the one that we were, to the four we have become, I welcome you,’ said Styliann. ‘Gentlemen, I am much obliged that you were able to journey here at such short notice.’ The standard form had no meaning. When a Triverne Lake meeting was called, it was attended at the expense of all else.

‘None of you can have failed to notice the increase in activity to the west of the Blackthorne Mountains.’ There was an uncomfortable shifting among the delegates. Styliann smiled. ‘Come, come, gentlemen, I think we can dispose with the pious denials, don’t you?’

‘The intelligence-gathering activities of other Colleges are not as extensive as your own, you may be surprised to hear,’ said Barras shortly, fingers ceasing their drumming momentarily.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Styliann. ‘But one worthwhile spy from each College will have gained enough information to make each one of us nervous, I’m sure.’

Vuldaroq mopped his face with a cloth. ‘This is all terribly interesting, Styliann, but if you have merely come here to confirm our own spies’ intelligence, then I have more important things to occupy my time.’

‘My dear Vuldaroq,’ replied Styliann with as great a degree of patronisation as protocol would allow, ‘I am here to waste no one’s time, least of all my own. However, I would be very interested in the scale of Wesmen activity your spies suggest is present.’ He gave a small laugh and spread his hands deferentially. ‘If, that is, you’re willing to share such details.’

‘Happy to.’ It was Heryst from Lystern who spoke. ‘We haven’t had anyone in the west for some weeks but we saw evidence of a fledgling tribal unity. Frankly, though, without a binding force in the shape of an overlord, we don’t see any concentrated or long-term threat.’

‘I have to differ with your opinion,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘We are currently running spies in the Heartlands and mid-west. We estimate that armies in the region of thirty thousand are prepared, but inter-tribal conflict seems the most likely. There is no evidence of a mass movement of forces towards the Blackthorne Mountains.’

‘Barras?’ asked Styliann, aware of the beating of his heart. None of them had seen it. Perhaps the old elf . . .

‘The point is that there is no real threat from the west no matter how large any Wesmen force might be. Without the magical backing of a power such as they enjoyed under the Wytch Lords, if enjoyed is the right word, they can never hope to gain dominion over us. Indeed, I doubt they would get a great deal further than Understone Pass.’

‘After all, the Wrethsires are hardly an adequate substitute.’ Heryst chuckled.

‘Well, they could make the wind blow a little harder,’ said Vuldaroq.

There was laughter around the table from all but the Xeteskian delegation. When they had quietened, Barras spoke.