them to the College. Denser was anxious to meet up with Ilkar, with all of The Raven but Ilkar most of all, and The Unknown had had to order him to rest.
And now the new day was full and Korina swarmed with life. There was much to be done and while The Unknown couldn't help the thrill that coursed through him, he hadn't the faintest idea how They would find one mage and her young child in this huge world. All they had was a letter, a starting point and a vague hinting of ancient magic he had neither heard of before nor understood. But if Denser thought it was important, The Unknown wouldn't question it. Gods, how they could do with Thraun; but Thraun was lost to them all.
He stood over the crib and smoothed a wisp of blond hair from Jonas' face before leaning in to kiss his pale forehead.
'I won't be away long, little one. Look after your mother for me.' He straightened and faced the door. Diera stood there, wearing a loose-tied bodice and a blue working skirt. Her fair hair tumbled across her face but it didn't hide her expression. The Unknown walked to her, making to speak but she raised a finger and placed it on his lips.
'Not yet, Sol. Tell me later. But if you must go, you can give me your next hour.' Her mouth turned up and she kissed his lips, her tongue darting into his mouth to twine with his. After a while he drew back, his hands on her upper arms.
'Jonas will wake. And besides, I know a more comfortable spot.' He took her hand and led her to their bedroom.
The wind savaged the forest, tore roots from the ground and brought branches, crashing to earth with terrible force. The trunks of young trees blew about the Thornewood like twigs, smashing everything in their path until they too shattered, sending lethal splinters to whirl in the maelstrom.
Thraun hunkered close to the ground, in the shelter of the twisted, cracked bole of a sundered oak, his gaze everywhere, thoughts racing. The flying splinters couldn't blind and cut him and the trunks couldn't smash his bone, though they could trap him, but it was not so for the rest of the pack. When the winds had struck without warning on a tranquil day, with the sun beginning to lose its influence, half of the den had been destroyed before the warnings could be barked.
What they had thought of as their strength had turned out to be a deathtrap. The den had been dug deep beneath the root systems of a dense knot of strong pines, but the wind had ripped them down like leaves falling as the weather turned cold, roots had torn free to whiplash into the den, heavy boughs crashed through the weakened roof, crushing so many to death and maiming so many more.
Sleeping away from the carnage, Thraun had woken, howled danger and fought his way back through fleeing wolves to see the damage for himself and help the trapped and wounded. There was little he could do. Blood was seeping into the ground, bone protruded from hide and
fur and of the few that moved, none would live, their bodies broken under the weight of earth and branch.
The wind was bringing down more of the den and Thraun had run to the only open way out, escaping as it too had collapsed. Outside it had been little better. A blizzard of splinters had cut and slashed into the survivors, leaving most bleeding, handicapped or blinded. And those who hadn't found immediate shelter from the wind had simply been blown away, one to hang in grotesque fashion from a net of branches higher than any wolf could spring, eyes dulling as its lifeblood ebbed from it.
Thraun howled his lament and hunkered down further to think how to save his devastated, panicked pack. He looked around him, at the mothers sheltering the pitifully few cubs that had survived and at the dog wolves, four only, looking to him for help and escape.
Thraun tasted the wind as it surged around them, felt its evil violence and knew they had to move. It came seemingly from everywhere, thrashing in his ears, its blasting force ripping down the forest. He could hear nothing but its fury and knew it hunted them like prey. There was only one place where they could hope to survive until the wind had passed. The crag point where the pack gathered before hunting would provide a barrier the wind couldn't break.
But it was over two hundred paces away. An almost impossibly long distance in the forest with the wind roaring and spitting its ferocity. Lulls were few and relative. Thraun sniffed again. A temporary quiet was coming.
He waited, every fibre tensed, his heart racing. There it was. A lessening of the tumult. Barely noticeable but it could give him the edge. He sprang over to the sheltering mothers, grabbed a cub by the scruff of her neck, growled through clenched teeth for the rest to stay and darted toward the crag.
The way was every bit as difficult as he had envisaged. The trails he knew and the markers he followed were all gone. The whole nature of the forest had changed almost beyond recognition. Everywhere he could see the sky, its heaving dark cloud piling across his vision like a river in flood.
The crown of every tree was shredded, snapped or gone completely. Debris lay thick on the forest floor, waiting to be whipped into lethal frenzy by the next gust. Nothing was as it should be and only Thraun's
innate sense of direction, strained by the enforced need to find a new and far longer route, got him there at all.
The relative calm in the lee of the crag was like walking from night into day. The wind whistled around its edges, a mournful dirge that saddened the heart, but in its centre, the crag would protect their lives. He set the cub down, nuzzling the quivering body of the petrified creature and licking its face. His growl was warming and comforting.
Stay. I will return.
And so he did. Five more times. Once with each cub and once with the remnants of the pack.
Finally, he could rest as the wind tore at the ruins of Thornewood. He looked at them, four adult males, two adult females and five cubs all less than two seasons old. Pitiful survivors of a den in excess of forty. But he would save what he had and build again. First, though, it was time to mourn.
He lifted his head and howled to the sky.
Erienne hadn't calmed Lyanna until they were alone in a room in the extraordinary building that was home to the Al-Drechar. It lay between a gurgling stream and a dense palm forest and, from the front, was an astonishing mass of timber and slate. It looked rather disorganised, and perhaps that was how it was supposed to be, but inside the elegance was breathtaking.
Not that Erienne had time to take in much more than a general sense of the place. Detail would have to wait until later. Right now, she cradled her sobbing child in her arms and wondered how she would ever get her from the delightful room which had been decorated just how Lyanna would like it, if she stopped crying enough to look.
And the truth was that they had scared Erienne too, standing there so tall and gaunt, pale robes flowing, every bone in their bodies standing proud. Ren'erei had reacted quickest, snatching up Lyanna from where she stood rooted and running inside with her. Dragging herself after the elf, Erienne had time to pick up the doll and shrug 'sorry' at the crestfallen Al-Drechar before chasing Ren'erei to the room in which she and Lyanna now sat alone.
On the gently toned yellow walls had been drawn waving, smiling bears and groups of rabbits at play. Light came from three shaded
lanterns and, in addition to a soft bed and low wooden desk, there was a child-sized armchair and sofa; and all sitting on thick rugs that protected feet from the timber floor. Candles filled the air with a fresh forest scent.
But Lyanna wasn't looking at any of it and her sobs were only just beginning to subside though her body still trembled and shook.
'Shh, darling, Mummy's here. No one will hurt you,' she whispered, putting her lips to the girl's head. 'That's it, calm down, now. Calm down.'
'Are the ghosts gone, Mummy?' she mumbled into Erienne's chest.
'Oh, sweet, they aren't ghosts, they're your friends.'
'No!' wailed Lyanna, her crying starting again. 'They aren't the old women. They're ghosts.'
Erienne could see her point. She knew the fluttering light robes they had worn we're for comfort in the humid heat. She was also aware that old elves traditionally kept their white hair long as a demand for respect; and that the muscle and fat faded from their bodies long before they became decrepit, leaving them skeletal in
