Chapter 3

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.

‘Not for some time, my Lord,’ said Ranyl. ‘Communion over such a distance is impossible. I have requested an interim report within thirty days but this could prove a long and difficult operation. ’

‘We must have the writings, though,’ said Dystran. ‘I have to be sure. You have my permission to commit resources as necessary.’

Ranyl inclined his head. ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

Dystran picked up his mug and let the fresh, slightly sweet herb aroma fill his nostrils. He sipped the hot liquid, enjoying the taste.

‘So, what of the food supplies?’ he asked.

‘We are fortunate to live within a walled city,’ said Ranyl by way of reply. ‘Our rationing has been effective and our people will survive until the new harvest. Not in comfort but none will starve. I cannot speak as confidently of the refugees at our gates, nor of the rest of Balaia. I understand conditions near Korina to be poor, also inland areas like Erskan and Pontois.’

‘Yet those refugees threaten us, Ranyl. They occupy our farm land and they practically surround our city. When the harvests start, they will demand food I am unwilling to give them. I need them moved by whatever means necessary.’

‘Be careful you do not drive them into Selik’s greedy hands.’

Dystran waved a hand. ‘There is a man and an organisation we can dispense with on a whim. And what would even he do with ten thousand starving Balaians, eh?’

‘It’s public opinion that should concern you,’ chided Ranyl.

Dystran chuckled. ‘I have no time for it. My concern is Dordover and the threat she poses. How are our forces holding out in Arlen? That route must be kept open.’

‘The situation is difficult but not disastrous,’ said Ranyl. ‘Dordover is a tenacious opponent.’

‘Keep me updated,’ said Dystran. ‘And you, my friend?’

‘Difficult but not disastrous,’ said Ranyl, a hand automatically feeling across his stomach. ‘My spells keep the pain away and I will see the recovery of the writings you want. Beyond that, I am in the lap of the Gods.’

‘What will I do without you?’

‘Prosper, young Dystran. You have the potential to be the tacit master of Balaia. The Seven will support you. You have time on your side and you must not hurry. I will school my successor to be as irritatingly cautious as I am.’

Both men laughed.

‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’ asked Dystran, revealing his anxiety as he knew he must.

‘As long as our people do not die needlessly in what may be to come, anything that is to the greater glory of the college and city of Xetesk is the right thing.’

Dystran stared deep into Ranyl’s eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever seen them burn so fiercely.

Rebraal moved quickly along the path hacked into the rainforest by the Balaian intruders. It was crude and narrow, showing no regard for its effect on the forest, driving straight on, dripping sap onto the mulch underfoot. There were ways of making trails through the forest but they required understanding. Strangers never understood.

As he moved, apprehension began to descend on Rebraal. These men had had no business close to Aryndeneth. What they were was obvious: robbers. Why else would they come here uninvited and armed to fight? What Rebraal couldn’t understand was where they had uncovered the information that had led them here and what exactly they had wanted. He assumed there were stories about hidden riches but these were very far from the truth. Nothing they could take would fetch a good price anywhere. Perhaps it was enough to prove they had been there. He didn’t let himself consider desecration.

But it served to chasten the Al-Arynaar, too many of whom were sceptical of the need for such a numerous order guarding a temple whose location had been believed the best kept secret on Calaius. Reality was hard to accept and the elf had to quell a pang of anxiety while remaining proud that their vigilance had seen off at least the first attack. They had not let their guard drop. They had sworn that they never would. And depending on what he found at the end of the careless path, he felt they could maintain that pledge.

To Rebraal’s knowledge, there had never been an attack on Aryndeneth. Of course the uninvited had come occasionally; those non-pilgrims who sought adventure rather than enlightenment. None had come seeking to harm or steal until now. But that possibility, however slight, was what had inspired the formation of the Al-Arynaar over three thousand years ago when the last priests had left the temple.

Rebraal sent a brief prayer to Orra, Appos and Shorth, the Gods of the earth, for the foresight of those that had gone before, a cold disgust replacing his brief anxiety. These men could not be allowed to disrupt the harmony. Aryndeneth, the Earth Home, was the centre of the elven race for so many reasons and the Al-Arynaar, the Keepers of the Earth, had a duty to elves that most would never even realise. They were not merely ceremonial guardians; that much was now unfortunately obvious. They were the guardians of the elven race itself.