Chapter Four

Travellers

Anurion the Green’s villa was like nothing Daroir had ever seen before. His idea of a palace was marble walls, soaring ceilings and graceful architecture that celebrated the craftsman’s art while blending sympathetically with the surrounding landscape. At least on this last count, the palace more than exceeded his expectations.

The palace was a living thing, its walls seemingly grown from the rock of the cliffs, shaped and formed according to the whims of its creator – and he was a person of many whims, Daroir was to discover. Living things grew from every nook and cranny, vines creeping across walls and columns of trees forming great vaults of leaves to create grand processionals.

Not only was the natural architecture astounding, but also confounding, for no sooner had a passageway formed than it would reshape itself or be reshaped as the palace’s master wandered at random through his home and caused new blooms to arise in his wake. Every open space within Anurion’s palace was a place of wonder and beauty and Daroir again imagined that this must be what Athel Loren was like.

He had thought that Kyrielle was leading him straight to her father, but Anurion the Green, it appeared, followed no one’s timetable but his own and when they had reached the palace at the top of the cliff, it had been to eat a meal of bread and fresh fruit and vegetables – many of which Daroir could not recognise or had outlandish names that were not elven or of any language he could recognise.

The next three days were spent regaining his strength and in discovery as he and Kyrielle explored her father’s palace, the ever growing and changing internal plan as new to her as it was to him. Aside from Kyrielle, he saw only a very few servants and some spear-armed guards around the palace. Perhaps the full complement of Anurion’s retainers remained in Saphery.

Each morning they would survey the magnificent landscape of Yvresse from the tallest tree-tower, savouring the beauty of the rugged coastline fringed with dense coniferous forests and long fjords that cut into the landscape from the ocean.

Deep, mist-shrouded valleys thrust inland and hardy evergreen forests tumbled down to the water’s edge, where the ocean spread out towards the Shifting Isles and the Old World beyond. To the west, the foothills of the Annulii marched off to distant peaks towering dramatically into the clouds. The tang of magic from the raw energies contained within them set his teeth on edge.

Kyrielle pointed to the south and he saw the tips of glittering mansions and towers that were all that could be seen of Tor Yvresse, the only major city of this eastern kingdom and dwelling place of the great hero, Eltharion. Daroir had to choke back his emotions at the sight of it, such was the aching beauty of its distant spires.

He would often return to the tree-towers just to see the lights of the city, knowing that soon he would need to journey to Tor Yvresse to cross the mountains and return to the inner kingdoms of Ulthuan.

Each day was spent in flitting conversation, with Kyrielle’s rapid subject changes unearthing a wealth of sophistication within him he had not known he possessed.

As they spoke it soon became apparent that knowledge of poetry was not the only artistic talent of which he had hitherto been unaware. One morning Kyrielle had presented him with a lyre and asked him to play.

‘I don’t know how to,’ he had said.

‘How do you know? Try it.’

And so he had, plucking the strings as though he had been playing since birth, producing lilting melodies and wonderful tunes with the practiced grace and élan of a bard. Each note flew from his hands, though he could feel no conscious knowledge of what he was doing and had no understanding of how he could create such beautiful music when he could remember nothing of any lessons or ability.

Each day brought fresh wonders as he discovered that as well as playing music he could also create it. Now aware he could play, an unknown muse stirred within him and he composed laments of such haunting majesty that they brought tears to the eyes of all that heard them. Each discovery brought as many questions as it did answers, and Daroir’s frustration grew as he awaited an audience with his unseen host.

Each piece of the puzzle of his identity that fell into place brought him no closer to the truth and each day he fretted over the silver ring on his finger. Every day spent without knowledge of his true identity was a day that someone mourned his loss: a friend, a brother, a father, a wife…

On the morning of the fourth day of his sojourn at Anurion’s palace, Kyrielle entered the bright arbour in which he sat, and he looked up from the ghost of his memories and saw that she brought him a weapon.

Without a word she handed him a leather belt upon which hung a long-bladed dagger sheathed in a scabbard of what felt like a dense, heavy metal. The scabbard was banded with three rings of gold along its length, but was otherwise plain and unadorned.

‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘Do you want to see if I can fight?’

She shook her head. ‘From the wounds you bear, I’d say that’s a given. No, you were wearing this when I found you on the beach. Do you recognise it?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember seeing it before.’

‘Not even when you were in the sea?’

‘No, I was too busy trying to hold onto the wreckage to worry about what I was wearing. What was I wearing anyway?’

‘You were dressed in the tunic of the Lothern Sea Guard. I’m told the heraldry on your arm was that of Lord Aislin.’

‘The Sea Guard? I have no memory of serving aboard a ship, but then I’ve had no memory of lots of things I’ve been able to do since you took me in, haven’t I? Maybe I should head to Lothern after I’ve spoken to your father?’

‘If you like…’ said Kyrielle. ‘Though I hoped you would stay with us a little longer.’

He heard the beguiling tone of her voice and knew she was working her charms upon him. He pushed aside thoughts of remaining here and said, ‘Kyrielle, I may very well have a wife and family. When my strength is returned I should get back to them.’

‘I know, silly,’ she said, ‘but it has been so wonderful having you here and trying to help you regain your memory. I’ll be sad to see you go.’

‘And I’ll be sad to leave, but I can’t stay here.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I will send a messenger to Lothern to take word to Lord Aislin that you are here. Perhaps he will know what ship you were on.’

He nodded and returned his attention to the dagger she had given him. Turning it over in his hands he was surprised at its weight. The workmanship was plain, though clearly of elven manufacture, for there was a sense of powerful magic to it. Though he spoke truthfully in saying that he did not recognise the blade, Daroir felt a connection to the weapon, knowing somehow that this weapon was his, but not how or why…

‘I feel I should recognise this,’ he said, ‘but I don’t. It’s mine, I know that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me, I don’t remember it.’

Daroir grasped the hilt of the dagger and attempted to pull it from the scabbard, but the weapon remained firmly in its sheath and no matter how hard he pulled, he could not draw the blade.

‘It’s stuck,’ he said. ‘I think it’s probably rusted into the scabbard.’

‘An elven weapon rusted?’ said Kyrielle. ‘I hardly think so.’

‘You try then,’ he said, offering her the scabbard.

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t want to touch it again.’

‘Why not?’

‘I felt… wrong. I don’t know, I just didn’t like the feel of it in my hand.’

‘The magic… is it dark?’

‘I do not know. I cannot tell what kind of enchantment has been laid upon it. My father will have a better idea.’

Daroir stood and slipped the belt around his waist. One hole in the belt loop was particularly worn and he was not surprised when the buckle fit exactly within it. He adjusted the dagger on his hip so that it was within easy reach, though a dagger that could not be drawn was not much protection.

Kyrielle stood alongside him and straightened his tunic, brushing his shoulders and chest with her fingertips.

‘There,’ she said with a smile. ‘Every inch the handsome warrior.’

He returned her smile and sensed a growing attraction for her that had nothing to do with her magical ability. She was beautiful and there was no doubt that he desired her, but he wore a pledge ring that suggested his heart belonged to another…

Though he knew that he should not feel such an attraction to Kyrielle, some deeper part of him didn’t care and wanted her anyway. Was that part of who he really was? Was he a faithless husband or some reckless lothario who maintained the façade of family life while making sport with other women?

That felt like the first thing that made sense to him since he had been plucked from the ocean. The idea of betrayal stirred some deep current within him, dredging up a forgotten memory of a similar cuckolding, but was it one he had perpetrated or a wrong that had been done to him?

He looked into Kyrielle’s eyes and felt no guilt at the feelings he had for her. Reflected in her features was the same attraction and he reached up to brush his palm against her cheek.

‘You are beautiful, Kyrielle,’ he said.

She blushed, but he could see his words had struck home and sensed a moment of opportunity that felt deliciously familiar. He leaned forward to kiss her, her eyes closing and her lips parting slightly.

Before their mouths touched, a rustle of leaves sounded as a wall of branches parted behind them and a tall figure swathed in green robes who muttered to himself lurched into the arbour with his arms outstretched.

A flickering ball of light floated between his hands, like a million tiny fireflies caged in an invisible globe of glass.

He turned to face them and frowned, as though not recognising them for a moment, before saying, ‘Ah, there you are, my dear. Would you mind helping me with these? I created a new form of honey bee this morning, but they’re rather more vicious than I intended and I rather feel I’ll need your help to make sure they don’t do any more damage…’

Finally, thought Daroir, Anurion the Green.

Eldain watched the city of Tor Elyr recede as Captain Bellaeir eased the Dragonkin through the sculpted rocky isles of the bay and aimed her prow, freshly adorned with the Eye of Isha, through the channels that led to the Sea of Dusk.

He stood at the side of the ship, wrapped tightly in a cloak of sapphire blue, though the temperature was balmy and the wind filling the sails was fresh.

He shivered as he remembered the last time he had left shore and travelled on a ship to a distant land. Caelir had been beside him and a seed planted that was to bear bitter fruit in the land of the dark elves. On those rare days he allowed the sun to warm his skin, he could convince himself that it had been the evil influence of the Land of Chill that had caused that seed to flower, but he knew only too well that the capacity for his actions had their roots within him all along.

It had been nearly a year since he had seen Tor Elyr, but it was as beautiful as he remembered, the crystal and white spires of its island castles rising from the peaked rocks of the water like cleft shards of a glacier. A web of silver bridges linked the castles to each other and Eldain’s heart ached to see it diminish behind him.

‘We’ll be back soon enough,’ said Rhianna, slipping her arms around him and resting her chin on his shoulder as she approached from behind.

‘I know.’

‘It will be good for us to travel. We’ve spent too long cooped up in Ellyr-charoi. I’ve missed the sun on my face and the sea air in my lungs. I can already feel the magic of Ulthuan growing stronger all around me.’

Eldain smiled, reminded once again that his wife was a mage of no little power.

‘You’re right, of course,’ he said, surprised to find that he actually meant it.

Perhaps it would be good to travel, to see cities and places in Ulthuan he had not seen before. When this business with Rhianna’s father was concluded, perhaps they might travel to Lothern and sample some of the fare from distant lands.

He turned within her grip and placed his own arms around her. ‘I do love you.’

‘I know you do, Eldain,’ said Rhianna, and the hope in her eyes was like a ray of sunshine after a storm, full of the promise that all will be well. He held her close and together they watched the jewel of Ellyrion as it slid towards the horizon.

The journey from Ellyr-charoi had taken longer than normal, for Yvraine was not as skilled a rider as he and Rhianna. Their own steeds could carry them swift as the wind through the forests and across the plains, but Yvraine did not possess the innate skill of an Ellyrion rider. As a result, by the time they reached Tor Elyr, their progress onwards was stymied by the news that a Black Ark had attacked the ships of Lord Aislin as they patrolled the western coasts of Ulthuan. Only a single ship had survived the encounter but its captain had managed to bring warning of the druchii’s attack, and now as many ships as could be mustered were being gathered in Lothern to mount a defence in the event of an attack.

As a consequence, the three travellers had been forced to await the arrival of a small sloop from Caledor to transport them across the Inner Sea to Saphery. This setback chafed at Yvraine, who paced like a caged Chracian lion at the enforced delay, though Eldain and Rhianna had taken the opportunity to dine in Tor Elyr’s exquisite eating houses and indulge in some wild riding across the grassy steppes.

In truth, Eldain had not been displeased at the delay, now relishing his time away from the stifling confines of the Hippocrene Tower and his guilt. Just being out in the open air had improved his mood immeasurably and he had laughed for what seemed like the first time in an age when he and Rhianna had first gone riding for the sheer joy of it.

As the days passed, it quickly became apparent that Yvraine had not long been in the service of the Loremasters, the subject coming up one evening while the three of them dined atop the highest spire of Tor Elyr in a crystal-walled dining room.

Rhianna had asked of the lands Yvraine had visited in her duties, only to be met by a rather embarrassed pause before the Sword Master said, ‘Merely Ellyrion.’

‘Is that all?’ Eldain had said. ‘I though you travelled all across Ulthuan?’

‘I shall when I complete this mission for Mitherion Silverfawn.’

Eldain had quickly realised what that meant and said, ‘Then this is your first mission?’

‘It is, everyone must begin somewhere.’

‘Indeed they must,’ said Rhianna. ‘Even those born to be kings do not become great without taking their first humble step on a long and winding road.’

Yvraine had looked gratefully at Rhianna and Eldain was struck by the realisation that, for all her outward inscrutability, Yvraine Hawkblade was desperately afraid to fail.

Thinking of the Sword Master, Eldain watched her sitting in the bow with her sword held before her as she tried to meditate. She had spoken of the difficulties in meditating while previously aboard ship, but he could only imagine how difficult it must be to achieve any sort of silent contemplation on a vessel this small.

‘She’s so young,’ said Eldain.

Rhianna followed his gaze and said. ‘Yes, she is, but she has a good heart.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The Loremasters do not take just anyone into the ranks of the Sword Masters. Only those who desire wisdom ever reach the White Tower; all others find their footsteps confounded until they are back where they began.’

‘Where is the wisdom in using a big sword?’

Rhianna smiled and shook her head. ‘Don’t mock, Eldain. For some the path of wisdom lies in the exercise of physical mastery of the ways of the warrior. Yvraine will have spent many years training at the feet of the Loremasters.’

‘I know,’ said Eldain, ‘I’m just teasing. I’m sure she is pure of heart, but it’s like she’s shut part of herself off from the world around her. Surely there must be more to life than meditating and practising with a sword.’

‘There is, but for each of us there is a path and if hers takes her on the road to mastery of weapons, then we are fortunate indeed to have her travel with us. She may be an inexperienced traveller, but she will be a formidable warrior, have no doubt of that.’

‘We are only sailing across the Inner Sea,’ said Eldain. ‘What could happen to us here? We are perfectly safe.’

‘As I’m sure Caledor thought, right before he was attacked by assassins on his way from Chrace to become the Phoenix King all those years ago.’

‘Ah, but he was perfectly safe,’ said Eldain, ‘for the hunters of Chrace saved his life.’

She sighed indulgently and said, ‘But the point remains. Better to have a Sword Master and not need her help, than to need it and not have her.’

‘Very true,’ he said. ‘But have you actually seen her do anything with that sword?’

‘No, I have not, but the exercise of her art is a private thing, Eldain.’

‘Well let’s just hope she knows how to use it if the need arises.’

‘I don’t think you need worry about that,’ said Rhianna.

‘Hmmm… aside from the wound to the head, there is nothing that would suggest an injury severe enough to result in the loss of one’s memory,’ said Anurion the Green, removing a set of silver callipers from Daroir’s head. The archmage checked the readings on the measuring device and nodded to himself before frowning and placing the callipers over his own skull and comparing the results.

They sat in Anurion’s study, though to call it a study gave it a degree of formality it did not possess. Formed from a hybrid of marble walls and living matter, tall trees curved overhead to form a graceful arch with trailing fronds reaching to the ground like feathered ropes. Plants and parts of plants covered every surface, hanging from baskets floating in the air or suspended by streamers of magical light that bubbled upwards from silver bowls. Budding flowers climbed the legs of the chairs and tables, each of which had been grown into its current form instead of being fashioned by the hand of a craftsman.

A dense, earthy aroma hung in the air alongside a million scents from the dizzyingly varied species of blooms that covered almost every surface in the chamber. The scents of so many living things should have been overpowering, but Daroir found it entirely pleasant, as though Anurion had somehow managed to find the exact combination to ensure that the air remained pleasingly fragrant.

Once Kyrielle and her father had contained the vicious bees, the archmage had turned to Daroir and said, ‘So you’re the one without his memory, yes?’

‘I am, my lord,’ said Daroir, for it was never a good idea to show discourtesy to a powerful archmage.

Anurion waved his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, stop all this “my lord” nonsense, boy. Flattery won’t help me restore your memory. I’ll either be able to do it or I won’t. Now come on, follow me to my study.’

Without another word, Anurion had stalked into the depths of his organic palace, leading them through great cathedrals of mighty trees and grottoes of unsurpassed beauty. With each new and magnificent vista, Daroir had to remind himself that this was one of the archmage’s lesser palaces. Though more pressing matters occupied his thoughts as he and Kyrielle set off after her father, he hoped that one day he would be able to visit Anurion’s great palace in Saphery.

It seemed to Daroir that their route took them through a number of arbours and clearings of marble and leaf they had passed before and he wondered if even Anurion knew his way around his palace – or if such knowledge was even possible.

At last, their journey had ended in Anurion’s study and both he and Kyrielle looked in wonder at the sheer diversity of life that flowered here. Plants and trees that Daroir had never seen before and had probably never existed before the tinkering of Anurion the Green surrounded them.

‘Sit, sit…’ Anurion had said, waving him over beside a long table strewn with ancient looking texts and a host of clear bottles containing variously coloured liquids. Daroir had been about to ask where he should sit when a twisting collection of branches erupted from the earthen floor and entwined themselves into the form of an elegant chair.

And so had begun an exhausting series of tests that Daroir could not fathom. Anurion had taken samples of his saliva and his blood before proceeding to measure his body, his height, weight and lastly the dimensions of his skull.

‘Right,’ said Anurion. ‘I have the physical information I need, boy, but you’ll need to tell me everything you remember prior to my daughter fishing you from the ocean. Omit nothing; the tiniest detail could be vital. Vital!’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Daroir. ‘I remember floating in the sea, holding onto a piece of wreckage… and that’s it.’

‘This wreckage, was it part of your ship?’

‘I don’t remember.’

Anurion turned to his daughter and said, ‘Did your guards bring the wreckage back to the palace as well as this poor unfortunate?’

Kyrielle shook her head. ‘No, we didn’t think to bring it.’

‘Hmmm, a shame. It could have held the key,’ said Anurion. ‘Still, never mind, one does what one can with the tools available, yes? Right, so we know nothing about your ship, and you say you remember nothing except being in the sea, is that correct?’

‘It is. All I remember is the sea,’ said Daroir.

Anurion swept up a strange, multi-pronged device that he attached to a number of coils of copper wire, which he then looped over Daroir’s head, pulling the wire tight at his forehead.

‘What are these for?’ he said.

‘Quiet, boy,’ said Anurion. ‘My daughter tells me that you were muttering something when she found you. What were you saying?’

‘I don’t know, I wish I did, but I don’t,’ said Daroir.

‘Unfortunate,’ said Anurion, adjusting the wires on his head, pulling them tight and leaving a trailing length of copper over his shoulder. ‘Kyrielle, I do hope you remember what he was babbling.’

‘Yes, father,’ said Kyrielle. ‘It was something about Teclis, about how he had to be told something. Something he needed to know.’

‘And that doesn’t sound familiar to you, boy?’ said Anurion, turning his attention back to Daroir.

‘No, not even a little.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Anurion. ‘Frustrating, but fascinating. What information could a lowly sailor have that would be of interest to the great Loremaster of the White Tower?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Daroir. ‘You keep asking me questions to which I have no answer.’

‘Hold your ire, boy,’ said Anurion. ‘I am taking time from valuable research to deal with you, so spare me your biliousness and simply answer what I ask. Now… Kyrielle tells me that you possess a dagger that cannot be drawn, yes? Let me see it.’

Daroir stood from the chair of branches and unbuckled his belt, handing the scabbarded dagger to the archmage.

‘Heavy,’ said Anurion, closing his eyes and running his long fingers along the length of the scabbard. ‘And clearly enchanted. This weapon has shed blood, a great deal of blood.’

Anurion gripped the hilt, but like Daroir, he could not force it from its sheath.

‘How can it be drawn?’ said Kyrielle.

‘Perhaps it cannot,’ said Anurion. ‘At least not by us.’

‘A poor kind of enchantment then,’ said Daroir.

‘I mean that perhaps it cannot be drawn by any other than he who crafted it or without the appropriate word of power. Only the most powerful magic can undo such enchantment.’

‘More powerful than yours?’ said Daroir.

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Anurion. ‘But the question that intrigues me more is how you came to be in possession of such a weapon. You are a conundrum and no mistake, young… what was it my daughter christened you? Daroir, oh yes, how appropriate. You bear an enchanted dagger and have no memory, yet it seems you possess some knowledge that your unconscious mind deems necessary to present to Lord Teclis. Yes, most intriguing…’

Daroir felt his patience beginning to wear thin at the eccentric archmage’s pronouncements and a strange heat began to build across his skull, further shortening his temper’s fuse.

‘Look, can you help me or not?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Anurion, without looking up from his desk.

‘That’s no answer,’ said Daroir. ‘Just tell me, can you restore my memory?’

‘What manner of answer would you have me give, boy?’ said Anurion, rounding on him and gripping his shoulders. ‘You have no idea of the complexity of the living material that makes up your flesh. Even the simplest of plants is made up of millions upon millions of elements that make it a plant and allow it to function as such. Now, despite the evidence of your foolish words, your mind is infinitely more complex, so I would be obliged if you would indulge my thoroughness, as I do not want to reduce your intelligence any further by acting rashly.’

Anurion released his grip as an expression of surprise spread across his face and he once again adjusted the coils of copper wire around Daroir’s head.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Magic…’ said Anurion.

Kyrielle stood and joined her father and an expression of academic interest blossomed on her features.

Daroir frowned at their scrutiny, feeling like a butterfly pinned to the page of a collector’s notebook. He glanced over at the table next to him and saw the stem and blooms of some unknown plant laid open like a corpse on an anatomist’s table and felt a sudden sense of unease at whatever had piqued their sudden interest.

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What do you mean, “magic”?’

Anurion turned from him and lifted a golden bowl filled with a silver fluid that rippled and threw back the light like mercury. He returned to stand before Daroir and lifted the trail of copper wires that dangled at his shoulder, unravelling them and placing the ends into the golden bowl.

So faint that at first he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, a nimbus of light built in the depths of the liquid, slowly intensifying until it seemed that Anurion held a miniature sun in his hands.

‘I mean that whatever is causing your amnesia, it is not thanks to some blow to the head or near drowning.’

‘Then what is it? What happened to my memory?’

‘You have been ensorcelled, boy,’ said Anurion, removing the copper wires from the bowl. ‘This was done to you deliberately. Someone did not want you to remember anything before you went into the sea.’

The idea of someone tampering with his memories appalled Daroir, and the horror of such mental violation made him almost physically sick.

‘Can you undo the magic?’ said Kyrielle.

Anurion folded his arms and Daroir saw the reticence in his eyes.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘You have to try. Please, I can’t go on not knowing who I am or where I am from. Help me!’

‘It will be dangerous,’ said Anurion. ‘Such magic is not employed lightly and I can offer you no guarantees that what memories you retain will survive.’

‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘After all, what am I but the sum of my memories? Without them, I am nothing, a cipher…’

He pulled the coils of copper wire from his head and threw them onto the table, standing square before Anurion the Green.

‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Whatever it takes, just do it. Please.’

Anurion nodded. ‘As you wish. We will begin in the morning.’