Quorum of Dordover. As you are well aware by now, the Al-Drechar are no myth; we just don't know where to find them. But if we work together, we will, believe me.'
'Your front is extraordinary as is your blindness, if you think for one moment that we would suffer to join forces with Black Wings?' Berian's face was contorted and red with rage. 'Have you taken leave of what remains of your senses?'
Selik shrugged and smiled, a grotesque leer on his ruined face. 'Then kill me and never learn what we know. The trouble is, you haven't the time to risk me being right after killing me, have you? Late at night in Dordovan taverns, your mages are not always as discreet as you might wish. Much has reached our ears and it is very interesting. Very interesting indeed.'
'But you haven't come here to exercise your altruistic streak, have you Selik?' asked Vuldaroq. 'You want something. What is it?'
'Ah, Vuldaroq. Not always as fat in the head as you might look. It's quite simple. You want the girl back, to educate, control or dispose of as you see fit. You can have her and I will help you get her. But in return, I want the witch that did this to my face.' He poked a finger at his hideous scarring. 'Give me Erienne Malanvai.'
And in the storm of protest that followed, Vuldaroq allowed himself a small chuckle.
Chapter 4
Ren'erei took Erienne and Lyanna along a wide, picture-hung, timbered and panelled corridor. It stretched fully seventy yards to a pair of plain double doors flanked by Guild guards. Other doors ran down its left-hand side and windows to the right overlooked a lantern-lit orchard.
On seeing the outside, Lyanna had forgotten her fear temporarily and run over to the window, mesmerised by the lanterns which swayed in the breeze, sending light flashing under the branches and broad leaves of the trees in the early evening gloom.
It was still very warm and Erienne had chosen a light, ankle-length green dress and had tied her hair up in a loose bun to let the air get to her neck. Lyanna wore a bright red dress with white cuffs, her hair in her favoured ponytail, the doll clutched, as ever, in her right hand.
'Just how big is this place?' asked Erienne, standing behind Lyanna and looking at another wing of the house over a hundred yards away, across the orchard.
'That's not an easy question to answer,' said Ren'erei. 'It has been standing since the Sundering and building has hardly stopped, even now when there are so few living here. It must cover much of the hillside. You should take a flight; you can see it all if you stay beneath the illusion. Suffice to say that though it is now only home to four, it was home to over eighty.'
'So what happened?' Erienne turned Lyanna away from the window and they walked on, passing ancient, faded pictures depicting burning cities, great feasts and running deer. It was an odd collection.
'I think they were complacent about ensuring the line continued, until it was almost too late. As you're aware yourself, producing a
true adept is very difficult. Numbers soon dwindled and it was made worse by those that just didn't want to stay their whole lives here. Despite the importance of the order, the will ebbed away. Who can explain that?'
They reached the doors, which were opened for them. Inside, a huge ballroom, decorated in red and white, decked with chandeliers and mirrors, took the breath away, though the covering dust told of its redundancy.
'I'll let them tell you the rest,' said Ren'erei, taking them right across the ballroom to an innocuous-looking door. She knocked and opened it, ushering them into a small dining room. Oak-panelled and hung with elven portraits, it contained a long table around the far half of which sat four elderly women. They were talking amongst themselves until Lyanna and Erienne entered, the litde girl clutching her mother's leg.
'It's all right, Lyanna, I'm here and they're friends,' whispered Erienne, taking in for the first time, the majesty of the Al-Drechar.
Erienne had no doubt that she was in the presence of Balaia's most powerful mages. Their faces told of people tired of life yet determined to survive, yearning for fulfilment to their long lives. It was the way she would always remember them.
Superficially, they were ancient elves, friendly enough but with the fierce expressions taut flesh dictated. Erienne saw shocks of white hair, bony fingers, long necks and piercing eyes. And then one spoke, her voice like balm on an open wound, quelling anxiety.
'Sit, sit. We must all eat. You, my child, must be tired and scared after your long journey. We won't detain you long. Your mother we might keep a little longer, if it's all right with you.'
Lyanna managed a litde smile as Erienne pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the table and ushered her to sit before taking the place next to her. Ren'erei took up a neutral position between the two groups.
'You won't hurt my mummy,' said Lyanna, her eyes fixed on the blue cloth that covered the table.
'Oh, my child, quite the reverse,' said another. 'We have been waiting too long to do anyone harm.' She clapped her hands. 'Introductions in a moment. First some food.'
Through a door to the left, a slim middle-aged woman came,
carrying a large steaming tureen by ornate wooden handles. Behind her, a boy of no more than twelve carried a tray with a stack of bowls and plates piled with cut bread. Swiftly, beginning with Lyanna, they served a thick soup that smelled rich and wholesome and set Erienne's stomach growling. She could see lumps of vegetable floating under the surface and the fresh aroma filled her nostrils.
'Eat, dear child,' said one of the Al-Drechar. Lyanna dipped a corner of her bread into the soup, blew on it and put it gingerly into her mouth. Her eyebrows raised.
'It's nice,' she said.
'Don't sound so surprised, Lyanna,' laughed Erienne. 'I'm sure they have good cooks here too.'
'I hope so.' Slightly clumsily, she scooped liquid on to her spoon. For a time, they were quiet, all eating the soup, which tasted as delicious as it looked and smelled, before Ren'erei cleared her throat.
'I think we've gone long enough without those introductions,' she said. 'Erienne, Lyanna, it is my great honour and pleasure to name for you the Al-Drechar.' Erienne smiled at the light of reverence in her eyes.
'To my right and moving around the table, Ephemere-Al-Ereama, Aviana-Al-Ysandi, Cleress-Al-Heth and Myriell-Al-Anathack.' She bowed her head to each in turn.
'Oh Ren'erei, you're so formal!' Cleress-Al-Heth laughed. 'You make us sound completely unapproachable.' The other Al-Drechar joined the mirth and Ren'erei blushed, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly. 'Please, Erienne, Lyanna,' she continued. 'We are Ephemere, Aviana, Cleress and Myriell, though you may hear us address ourselves with various other names which you are of course welcome to use.'
Erienne felt more at ease than she had done for days. The aura of the Al-Drechar dissipated a little though she remained mindful of their power and the clear magical vitality that they possessed. They were, on one level at least, just old elves and that was a comforting thought.
She studied them as the soup was drained, and her immediate impression was that they looked very much alike. It was inevitable, she supposed, after so many years living so close to one another, that
they would share mannerisms, dress and even broad physical attributes. And though they were different enough through shape of nose and mouth, and through eye colour, she expected Lyanna to have trouble telling them apart for a few days.
'You've lived together a long time, haven't you?' she asked.
Cleress smiled. 'A very long time,' she agreed. 'Three hundred years and more.'
'What?' Erienne was taken aback. She knew elves had a potentially very long life span but three hundred years was extraordinary. Impossible.
'We have waited here, scanning the mana spectra, conserving ourselves and planning for the next coming of someone who can take on the Way,' said Aviana. She smiled ruefully. 'We were getting a little desperate.'
'How long have you been waiting?'
'Three hundred and eleven years. Ever since the births of the babies: Myriell and Septern,' replied Aviana.
Erienne gaped. Septern having been an Al-Drechar wasn't really a surprise but the scarcity of the adepts
