He was tiring, he knew that. It was evident in the return of pain in his back, arms and legs. Denser couldn’t cover it all. His mana remained where it would keep Ilkar alive. But the Julatsan’s mana reserves were stretched, and as they became ever more so, he demanded yet greater input from Denser.

There would come a point when neither of them could suppress the pain in their own bodies as their mana was all directed elsewhere. Then, the end would be near. Then, Erienne would have to help, or he and Hirad would die.

Styliann relaxed, smiling to himself as he recovered from the communion. He pictured Selyn in his mind, saw her body arching with pleasure, all but felt the caress of her lips and the gentle touch of her hands. Her return would signal a change. He needed a son.

But for now, she travelled deep in Wesmen-held lands towards Parve and the almost certain confirmation of the fear the four Colleges had harboured ever since the Wytch Lords’ banishment. A return. And a return to a power greater than before, harder to stop and impossible to vanquish. That is, without Dawnthief. Because the Colleges were no longer as strong and their armies no longer as big. Without the spell, everything would be lost.

Concealing herself during the daytime and flying on ShadowWings for parts of the night, Selyn was making swift and safe progress towards the edge of the Torn Wastes. She would reach its boundaries in three days, Parve itself in four. He could expect his next communion with her in five. It was going to be a hard time. This was danger like she had never faced before. And he would see to it that she never had to face it again.

His mind wandered and he glanced out of his study window, tracing the outlines of Nyer’s and Laryon’s Towers. Nyer’s man had breached Septern’s workshop but had not held communion with his Master since then. Apparently. Styliann felt he was not being fed all the information. That irritated him a great deal.

He smiled again. Everyone trusted Laryon. The worker, the genius, the friend. Perhaps it was time to take the new member of the circle a little closer in. Styliann couldn’t track Nyer’s moves or question him further without arousing suspicion. Laryon, on the other hand, would have no such problem. Styliann reached out his hand and pulled the bell chain by the fire. The wine he ordered would come with two glasses.

Time had become an irrelevant quantity for Ilkar long before Hirad’s kidneys finally failed. They went one after the other in quick succession, forcing the Julatsan to abandon all remaining sedation of his own body as his fight to save Hirad reached its last desperate stage.

‘Denser,’ he mumbled.

‘I know,’ said Denser.

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s coming. Hang on.’ Denser pulsed mana through Ilkar’s bruised back, the sense of relief serving only to heighten his awareness of his pain.

And so it had come to this. Hirad was dying, fading fast. Ilkar took everything he had and fed it into the barbarian’s failing body. He was forced to ignore one kidney, letting it bleed and drain as he concentrated on the other. And all the time, his own cracked, bruised and aching body yelled for relief. His broken right arm sent waves of nausea through his head, his lower back seared as if it were atop a fire and his legs felt as though hammers pounded them up and down their length.

But it was a relief he was unable to grant himself - unless he let Hirad die. Nor could he ask it of Denser. The Xeteskian was already keeping him alive with almost his entire mana stream. Ilkar couldn’t fail to note the gasping breaths Denser was taking with increasing regularity. It was clear he had been less than honest with his assessment of his own injuries.

‘How long, Ilkar?’

‘Me or him?’ Ilkar gritted.

‘Isn’t it one and the same thing?’ Denser’s voice was appallingly tired.

‘Not quite. He’s got less than an hour. It’s his kidneys.’ And then, so suddenly that Ilkar had to think to maintain his flow to the barbarian, a new, strong anaesthetising warmth moved through him and he knew she had come. The warmth travelled on into Hirad, following his mana trails.

‘You’re being generous.’ A woman’s voice sounded very close to his ear. ‘He has little more than half an hour. You are unaware of the gravity of your own state.’

As suddenly as it had come, the warmth was gone and pain engulfed Ilkar once more.

‘Well?’ asked Denser.

‘It can be done.’ The woman’s voice again.

‘Both of them?’

‘If you can hold on to the Julatsan. If that’s what you want.’

‘That’s what I want.’

‘There will be a price.’

‘I understand.’

‘I hope that you do.’

Ilkar shook his head. A price between a Dordovan and a Xeteskian. Still. As Denser had said earlier, there was a wider purpose. The warmth returned, tracing into Hirad’s body.

‘Release him to me, Ilkar,’ said Erienne.

‘I—’

‘You must,’ she urged. ‘Or Denser may not be able to save you.’

Ilkar knew she was right. With one last pulse, he withdrew from Hirad, taking his hands from the barbarian’s stomach and focusing inside at the ruins of his own body.

He shut off the pain, feeling Denser put a hand on his forehead. Slowly, the world dimmed to peace and he was adrift.

Erienne scanned Hirad’s body and sighed. She should let the man die. In front of her was one of the reasons her sons were dead. The leader of The Raven. It would be fitting for him to die too. It would redress the balance just a little.

But Denser had seen into her when he had asked for her help. Knew she would be too fascinated by the prospect of Dawnthief to refuse him. And knew she could not refuse her calling. But her healer’s code did not stop her striking bargains for the lives of those she was asked to save. And this time, the bargain might just give her a reason to carry on herself. Same goal, new subject, and Denser’s seed would be ideal. It would, of course, be all for nothing should Hirad and Ilkar die. She bent her mind to the immediate problem.

For Hirad, a BodyCast was his only hope. It would take more than twenty minutes to prepare. As she began, she prayed he would last that long.

From the well of his agony, Hirad fought to rise. Somewhere, far above, the heat was calling him. He didn’t realise he’d fallen so deep and he didn’t think he could climb back. Try, Hirad, try. A voice penetrated his unconscious. A woman. He tried.

Chapter 17

The next thing that assaulted Ilkar’s senses was a smell, cloying, with a sweet aftertaste. Pipe smoke.

He was lying down, still in the big room, and the view afforded him when he opened his eyes revealed nothing but a ceiling lit by bright sunlight. It was a fuzzy view and he lay listening to the quiet while his eyes found their focus. Erienne had saved him. He was tired, dull aches flagging his more serious injuries, but he knew he was no longer in any danger. It was a good feeling.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and there was Denser. The Xeteskian sat on a chair with his feet on a table, legs outstretched. His face, what Ilkar could see of it, still bore the scars of his beating but, dressed in his familiar black and with his skull cap in his lap, he looked pretty much like the old Denser. His pipe smoked gently in his mouth, a steaming mug sat on the table by him and the cat lay on his thighs, curled and asleep.

‘Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be pleased to see a Xeteskian.’

Denser laughed, and his movement woke the cat, who yawned, stretched and leapt to the ground. The mage took his feet from the table and ambled over to Ilkar.

‘And good morning to you, Ilkar. Or should I say good mornings? ’