‘But first, we will pray.’

Rebraal led them to the temple.

The Unknown Warrior walked through the entrance of the house, nodding at Aeb who stood just inside. The Protector inclined his head in return.

‘The kitchen is still the most habitable area,’ he said in response to the question The Unknown had been framing.

The Raven warrior smiled. ‘And the rest of the house?’

‘Safe from collapse. We have repaired roofing over some of the bedrooms but we lack tools.’

‘Not any more you don’t. Nor do you lack muscle.’

‘A hundred of my brothers is a welcome addition,’ said Aeb.

‘A hundred?’ echoed Hirad.

‘Later,’ said The Unknown. He turned back to Aeb. ‘We’ll tour the house later, set some priorities. I’ll be in the kitchen with my family.’

Aeb inclined his head again. ‘I will have our brothers leave there.’

‘Thank you.’

The Unknown pointed the way and led Diera towards the kitchen, which stood at the far end of the house. It was not a walk he enjoyed.

Directly opposite the shored-up frontage with its battered but repaired doors was the gaping space that had once been the wood and glass entrance to the orchard, the devastated centrepiece of the house. The Unknown paused and looked out, and the battle flickered back through his head with disturbing clarity.

He saw the orchard ablaze with mage fire from the bombardment of Dordovan FlameOrbs. The shapes of mages descending on Shadow-Wings into the blaze. The sound of spells drumming on the roof. The rush of cool air as the front doors were battered down. The spatter of blood on his face. Dear Gods, The Raven had fought so hard against such numbers.

The Unknown placed a hand on his forehead and felt the sweat sheen there. His hip ached in sympathy at the memory of the desperate run up the corridor to the ballroom and through to the kitchen. The ache intensified, jabbed pain at him.

The smells of ash and fear were in his nostrils once again. The deaths of Protectors blown apart by close-focused magic flashed in front of his eyes. He could hear Denser’s frantic attempts to shield them from crossbows behind and Hirad’s roar and the cut of his sword into Dordovan flesh. And, with sickening repetition, he saw a Protector sacrifice himself to save Lyanna from an IceWind, Ilkar’s sword spinning end over end through the air and the blood that flowed from the mage’s nose. There was Selik, too, standing over the prone body of Erienne, and Hirad charging towards him. And at the end, Darrick and Ren saving them all when they should have died.

All except Lyanna. And it was his abiding sorrow that everything had been reversed. Because she should have been the only one to live but ended up being the only one to die. For all their defence. For all the fight way beyond normal endurance. For all their belief, The Raven could not save her.

Nothing could have. He swayed against the door frame.

‘Hey, lost in that head of yours, are you?’ asked Diera, free arm linked through his.

They moved left to the long passageway which led up to the banqueting hall and overlooked the orchard all along its length. A long door-studded wall ran the other side.

‘A little,’ he said. ‘You can’t stop the memories coming back.’

‘You fought up here?’ asked Diera.

The Unknown looked down at her as they walked. Hirad kept a respectful silent distance behind. She was glancing about as if trying to imagine the scene. Jonas had snuggled into her shoulder and looked asleep.

‘All the way from front door to kitchen. When we weren’t running, that is.’ He tried to smile but she shuddered.

‘It must have been awful,’ she whispered.

‘I thought we were all going to die,’ he said.

Diera leant a little further into him and he squeezed her shoulder.

‘Gets to you, doesn’t it?’ said Hirad, coming to his side.

‘You could say,’ he replied.

‘It fades but it never goes away,’ said the barbarian.

‘Come on,’ said The Unknown. ‘Let’s get The Raven together. I’ll worry about my mind later.’

Rebraal led the Al-Arynaar into the dome of Aryndeneth and at once the majesty of the temple surged through his body and he felt, as they all did, the pulsing life of the harmony. Sweet and soothing, it swept away the threat that lay without and filled him with the surety of the everlasting. It stoked his belief and imbued his mind with the determination that set the Al-Arynaar apart.

He breathed deep and walked further into the cool of the great dome, towards its magnificent statue and glorious pool. Rebraal still found it hard to believe that Aryndeneth and all it contained had been built five millennia ago.

Beyond the threshold, marble and stone flags patterned the floor, the multicoloured slabs positioned exactly to catch the light of the sun at a dozen different times of the day, when prayers could be offered to the Gods of the forest and the land, of the air and mana, and of harmony. There were no seats in the main dome, although contemplation chambers at each corner of the temple provided rough benches and stands for candles. And further back, a corridor had other chambers on either side, the doors of which opened only at given times of the day or season. The dome itself was the place for silent reverence and hands touching the ground when praying brought the Gods closer.

Between the precisely set windows, the walls and domed ceiling were covered in intricate murals. They depicted the rise of Yniss and the trials of the elven peoples as they grew to longevity and earned the right to live with the land, vibrant colours tracing the history of Calaius. And, in the centre of the domed ceiling, was painted the only fully rendered impression of the Balaian dimension, with Calaius at its centre. Radiating out from the Southern Continent were the energy lines the elves believed linked the lands and the seas together. They were the lines that gave elves their innate sense of home anywhere in the world and originated from one place. Aryndeneth.

Beautiful though the murals, maps and line tracings were, they were as nothing in comparison to what dominated the temple. In the exact centre of Aryndeneth, a statue rose seventy feet into the dome.

It was of Yniss, the God the elves worshipped as the Father of their race and He who gave the elves the gift of living as one with the land and its denizens, the air and with mana. Rebraal’s eyes tracked down the statue, which was carved from a single block of flint-veined, polished pale stone.

Yniss was sculpted kneeling on one leg, head looking down along the line of his right arm. The arm was extended below his bended knee, thumb and forefinger making a right angle with the rest of the fingers curled half fist. Every detail of the sculptors’ vision had been intricately included. Yniss was depicted as an old elf, age lines around the eyes and across the forehead. His long full hair and beard were carved blowing back towards and over his right shoulder.

Romantic idealism had led the sculptors to depict the God’s body as toned and muscled perfection. There was the odd age line but nothing to really divorce the body from that of a pure athlete. A single-shouldered robe covered little more than groin and stomach, leaving open the bunching shoulders, stunningly defined arms and powerful, sandal-shod legs.

Though there was no colour other than that of the marble itself, Rebraal always stared hard at the slanted oval eyes, their powerful lines and clever use of the temple’s light and shadow making them all but sparkle with life.

The majesty of the statue, though, was all mere dressing for its purpose. The scriptures of Yniss spoke of him coming to this place to give life to the world and construct the harmony that made the elves, gave them long life and showed them the beauty of the forest and the earth. Yniss had channelled his life energy along forefinger and thumb into the harmonic pool, from where it spread throughout the land, bringing glory where it touched. The scriptures laid down the exact design of Yniss’s hand for the sculptors who came after him, their precision ensuring the flow of life energy was forever unbroken. Pipes concealed within the statue’s thumb and forefinger fed water from an underground spring into the pool beneath the statue’s outstretched hand.