‘ “Where the door lies, the elders know, yet their voices are silent,” ’ intoned Densyr, reading from one of the scripts Sharyr held for him.
‘ “Entry is only granted to those free of their mortal shackles. Free to travel, free to find rest. Their Gods shall guide them and their souls shall know peace.” ’
He waved the parchment away.
‘So speaks the lore of Xetesk.’
Densyr knelt on the stone floor facing Sol and Diera. Young Hirad and Jonas were still in the room and Vuldaroq had managed to move close enough to them to offer any comfort he could. Auum’s Tai had not lifted their heads from their prayer.
Densyr’s back was straight and his hands rested in his lap. From what Ilkar could gather of the technical part of the lore Densyr had read out, this casting was as much meditation as mana shape building. Another day, in another life, Ilkar would have been fascinated by the whole process. But right now all he wanted was for it to be over.
From the moment Ilkar had known Densyr was actually prepared to perform the ritual, the pain in his borrowed body had deepened and the gale trying to snatch his soul away to the void had strengthened. To such an extent indeed that he found it a challenge to hear anything that was being said and harder still to concentrate. A quick glance at Sirendor and Thraun told him they felt the same. Hirad surely would not last long with his defences so low.
‘I will now perform the ritual. It has no words but it requires peace. Please, then, do not speak until I do. Sol, Diera. When the ritual requires its soul of free will, the shape will be stable enough for you to have the time you need.’
Sol nodded. Diera looked blank and confused.
‘If it is a lengthy process, we may need to stabilise Hirad again,’ said Sharyr.
‘Do it quietly, then,’ said Densyr. ‘I-’
The chamber shook. Braziers rattled in their brackets. One of the chalkboards broke free at a corner and leaned out from the wall. The workbenches juddered. Ilkar clutched at Sirendor to steady himself. The vibration went on and on. The sound of a huge rock fall reached them and the rumble echoed away like thunder in the Blackthorne Mountains.
‘What was that?’ asked Jonas.
Densyr and Sharyr both had the same thought. Sharyr put it into words.
‘I fear the circle of seven is broken,’ he said, his voice small.
Densyr brushed dust from his clothing. ‘Then I have no time to waste. It begins.’
There was the slightest reaction on Densyr’s face as he tuned into the mana spectrum. His mouth moved silently, reminding himself of the process he must follow. His head fell slowly forward towards his chest and his hands came to his temples. He pressed in with middle and forefingers.
Ilkar saw each tiny twitch in Densyr’s eyelids as he drew the shape of the casting together. Ilkar had always loved to watch a consummate mage at work and Densyr was certainly one such. Efficient, economical and accurate. Every movement was precise, every slight error corrected without pause or panic.
The temperature of the chamber began to decrease. A deep grey mist formed slowly above Densyr’s head.
‘What-’
‘Shh, Hirad,’ whispered Jonas. ‘Just watch.’
Ilkar thought he saw the tiniest of smiles flicker across Densyr’s expression. The mist expanded, like corn seeds scattered over water separating and spreading. It was set about five feet above Densyr’s face, which was turned upwards to see his work. It was no bigger than a quarter-light window.
Densyr took his hands from his temples and clasped them in front of his chest. His eyes closed and he became perfectly still. His breathing slowed and deepened and the pause between each inhalation grew. Ilkar dropped into the mana spectrum and suppressed a gasp.
It was beautiful. The mist was wreathed in strands of mana, each one pulling out at a different angle to keep the mist taut in its frame, as it were. And from Densyr’s upturned face came a gentle stream of deep blue, wispy and shot through with light. It was as if he was giving of his own soul to the construct.
Ilkar nodded his appreciation and tore himself away and back to the chamber. Diera was staring at the mist while her arms clutched hard at Sol’s waist. He was seated with her on the ground, stroking her hair and whispering. On their chairs, Jonas was still but young Hirad was restless with Densyr’s continued meditation. He opened his mouth but this time Vuldaroq turned to him, put a finger to his lips and ruffled his hair with a stick-thin hand.
Ilkar felt a growing pull inside his body. Not painful now but a yearning to recover what was lost and an impatience to begin. He breathed out slowly and deliberately and glanced around. Sirendor and Thraun beckoned him to join them by Hirad. The yearning eased.
Densyr let his head fall forward once more and his hands dropped back into his lap. He rubbed them on his thighs and turned to Sol, his expression sorrowful.
‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Sharyr.’
Sharyr picked up a goblet and brought it to Densyr. The Lord of the Mount held it in a hand that displayed a slight shake.
‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Just like the early years after the demons left.’
‘A shame we can’t sit and reminisce about it any more,’ said Sol.
‘Just one sip will do. But we have diluted the poison with some particularly fine Blackthorne red so you might feel a long draught is in order.’
‘How… how quickly does it work?’ asked Diera, voice admirably steady.
‘A matter of moments,’ said Densyr. ‘And there is no pain.’
‘Nothing physical anyway,’ she said, trying to smile and bursting into tears instead. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘For what?’ asked Ilkar. ‘For having more courage than the rest of us put together? Or for marrying a man determined to be a hero even after he’s dead?’
It was a weak attempt at humour but the tension released just a little anyway.
‘I need you all to leave now,’ said Diera. ‘You don’t have to move Hirad if you don’t need to. And you might as well leave Auum too. They don’t seem to be taking part any more.’
Ilkar glanced at the elves. Their heads were still bowed in prayer, their arms on each other’s shoulders.
‘C’mon, let’s go. Through here, Densyr?’
‘It is marginally more comfortable than the corridor,’ said Densyr.
‘Jonas, Hirad, come here,’ said Sol.
Ilkar ushered Vuldaroq through the door and closed it quietly behind him.
‘Jonas, you have important work to do,’ said Sol.
‘I know what’s happening, Father. And I’ll be strong and I’ll look after everyone for you.’
Sol smiled and put a hand to Jonas’s cheek.
‘Tell me you really understand,’ said Sol.
Jonas swallowed hard and blinked away the moisture in his eyes. ‘I know what is in that goblet. And I know you are going to drink it. I know that means I will never see you again but-’
Sol dragged him into a crushing embrace as Jonas broke down, sobbing on his father’s shoulder. So much surged through Sol. Conflicts raged within his mind, his heart and his soul. Holding his son so close, smelling his hair and feeling his heaving chest and his breath, all desire to leave deserted him. He didn’t care how long he clung on to Jonas. He didn’t flinch when another massive impact struck the college but he covered his boy’s head to stop the dust falling in his hair.
Sol looked at the goblet placed on the ground near him. The wine and poison had a film of dust on its surface. Sol reached out a hand, ready to knock it flying, scatter the contents across the stone and bring an end to the madness. Sol felt his pulse rattling in his temple and the heat in his face. The tears flowed down his cheeks. Slowly, he pulled Jonas away from him. Their two faces were close together. Jonas wiped Sol’s cheek.
‘I wish with all my heart you didn’t have to do this,’ he said. ‘But I am proud. Because you always want to save those you love and even those you do not know. Just like you taught me.’
Sol almost choked and his love for his son deepened further than even he thought possible. He saw Diera’s
