Raven waited nervously. The Al-Arynaar had closed the temple door, and even when Erienne began to wail they would not move. All Denser could do was pace.
Hirad stood with The Unknown as time dragged on, still feeling the bitter taste of fresh grief in his mind.
‘All this death and we achieved none of the things we left Herendeneth to do.’
‘Wouldn’t have been anywhere else though, would you?’ said The Unknown.
‘No, I suppose not.’ Hirad scuffed at the ground with his feet. ‘You know, I’m starting to believe in destiny. For The Raven, that is.’
‘How do you figure that?’
Hirad shrugged. ‘Just look at the facts. Everything major that’s happened has involved us right at its core. It’s like we were supposed to be there when Denser found Dawnthief. Supposed to be there when the rip was torn in the sky. And the rebirth of the One magic? Could have happened to any two mages, potentially, but it didn’t. It happened to Erienne and Denser. And now this. If we’d come here ten days earlier, we’d have known nothing about Elfsorrow until Ilkar caught it. But we were here. And we could help.’
‘Up to a point,’ said The Unknown grimly. ‘So what’s next? Not a quiet retirement.’
‘No,’ said Hirad. ‘Aside from finishing what Ilkar started by coming here, there’s the little matter of a college war going on. Reckon you’re up for that? See, if it goes the wrong way before we’re ready, there are things won’t get done.’
‘Ah. Well, I reckon I could stir myself,’ said The Unknown. ‘For a good cause or two.’
The door of the temple opened and Erienne emerged. Auum and Rebraal supporting her on either side, they led her over to Denser, kissing her cheeks before draping her in his arms. Across the stone apron, elves were offering prayers of thanks, their faces uplifted, light in their eyes, the haunting fear of imminent death removed.
‘I take it this was a success.’
Rebraal nodded. ‘Yniss is rebound. He will bless us once again. Can you not feel it? The harmony is growing again. It embraces us all.’
‘And how do you feel, Erienne?’ asked Denser, crushing his wife to him and stroking her back with his hands. ‘How does it feel to have saved the elven race?’
‘Tiring,’ said Erienne. ‘I think I need to lie down.’
Auum moved in front of Hirad and bowed his head, speaking a few words.
‘He is thanking you for all you have done. He salutes you and grieves for your loss. Among the TaiGethen and Al-Arynaar, you will always be welcome.’
‘It’s what we do,’ said Hirad.
‘I’m sorry we mistrusted you,’ said Rebraal. ‘I hope you will let us travel back to Balaia with you, to carry on the fight.’
‘I was counting on it.’
Rebraal smiled.
‘I’d give it all up to have him standing here,’ said Hirad.
‘Would it help if I told you that in death he saved all of this majesty for every elf ever born from now on?’
It was a different take to his own but a good one. Ilkar, father of the elves.
Hirad smiled. He rather liked the sound of that.
There are those without whom writing a novel would not be the pleasure it (mostly) is. Simon Spanton, who is a great friend and an inspirational editor; Nicola Sinclair, who juggles a keen eye for publicity with Olympic class arguing; Sherif Mehmet, a production guru with a neat line in veiled threats; and Robert Kirby, an excellent agent who manages to keep smiling despite the football team he supports . . .
Thanks also to Peter Robinson, John Cross and Dave Mutton, because you keep on criticising; to my nephew David Harrison for being this year’s number one fan; to Ariel for ongoing website magic; to Caffè Nero on Edgware Road for providing the best coffee and most comfortable leather chairs in London; and to everyone who took the time to email me about The Raven.
Turn the page for a sneak preview of
Shadowheart
LEGENDS OF THE RAVEN:
BOOK TWO
Chapter 1
The detachment of cavalry from the mage college city of Lystern wheeled and attacked again, charging hard at the defenders holding their positions outside Xetesk’s east gates. Targeting the weakened left flank, they sped in, hooves churning mud, swords and spear tips glinting in the bright, warm afternoon sunlight. Thirty horses, sweat foaming under saddles, galloping under the steady control of crack Lysternan riders and led by Commander Izack.
‘Come on, this time,’ whispered Dila’heth to herself, watching the attack from a rise above the blood-drenched battlefield.