Chapter Ten

Chaos

The moment stretched. Caelir looked up into the pale eyes of Teclis, seeking any indication that he would help. The Loremaster stroked his thin jaw and regarded Caelir with the same academic interest as Anurion had, as though he were a particularly complete specimen of great rarity.

‘Anurion tells me that your memory has been magically locked within you. Is this true?’

‘It is, my lord,’ confirmed Caelir, unwilling to speak more than necessary in case he made a fool of himself before this legendary hero of Ulthuan.

Teclis approached him and a warm aura preceded him, bathing Caelir in resonant magic that seeped from the Loremaster like sweat on the skin of a human. The power inherent in Teclis, even when he conjured no spell or summoned no magic, was palpable and just being near him made every sense in Caelir’s body feel sharper, more attuned.

‘Who would do such a thing?’ wondered Teclis, reaching out to touch Caelir’s forehead, then thinking better of it as a frown creased his thin face. The Loremaster closed his eyes and Caelir felt a surge of magical energy pass through him.

Suddenly Teclis’s eyes flew open and Caelir thought he detected the hint of a curious smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

‘You are a strange one, Caelir of Ellyrion,’ said Teclis. ‘I sense no evil to you, but there is a part of you I cannot yet reach. Something buried deep inside and cloaked in veil upon veil of magic. Someone has gone to great lengths to hide it and I would know what it was and why.’

‘I would ask you to do whatever you can, my lord,’ said Caelir.

‘Oh, I shall,’ promised Teclis. ‘But you may not like what I find.’

‘I don’t care, I just want my memories back.’

‘Memories can be painful, Caelir,’ warned Teclis. ‘I have travelled far in this world; from forgotten Cathay to the jungles of Lustria and even the blasted wastes of the north. And there are many sights I would gladly burn from my memories if I could. You must be sure that this is what you want, because there will be no turning back once we begin.’

‘Anurion told me the same thing, my lord, and I give you the same answer. Whatever it takes and whatever befalls me, I am willing to take the risk and accept the consequences of what happens.’

Teclis gave a derisive laugh and turned away from him, making a circuit of the chamber as he spoke. ‘Do not be so willing to accept consequences you know nothing about, Caelir. None of us can know what will happen when I delve within your mind, but such a dark mystery should not be left unsolved, eh?’

As Teclis walked and Caelir recovered from his awe, he took in his surroundings in more detail, seeing that the top of the tower was a spartan place of meditation and serenity. The floor was a gleaming blue marble save for a circular pattern of an eight-spoked wheel at its centre marked in a mosaic of shimmering onyx. Eight narrow windows pierced the tower at regular intervals, each at the terminus of one of the wheel’s spokes, and aside from a slender silver stand upon which sat a golden ewer, the chamber was devoid of furniture.

Teclis completed his circuit of the wheel and stood at the opposite side of the circle to him. The Loremaster’s expression softened and he said, ‘All my life I have sought out the truth behind the world and you intrigue me, Caelir of Ellyrion. Step into the centre of the circle.’

Caelir obeyed and joined Anurion and Kyrielle within the eight-spoked wheel, feeling a tremor of magic stirring within him as he did so. Kyrielle took his hand and gave it a squeeze of reassurance as her father concentrated on Teclis.

Teclis rapped his golden staff on the marble floor and a door worked seamlessly into the wall of the chamber opened in response. A procession of robed mages entered and Caelir blinked as he realised the impossibility of such a thing.

He turned his head as he looked through each of the windows in turn, seeing only the blue of sky or the magic-wreathed peaks of the Annulii through them. He looked back at the door in amazement, for surely such a door would open into the air…

But in this most sacred place of magic, he supposed that nothing should surprise him.

Behind the mages came four Sword Masters in long, shimmering coats of ithilmar mail and tall plumed helmets. Each warrior carried an elven greatsword, bearing the lethal blade as easily as Caelir might carry the lightest of bows.

The newly arrived mages were young and wore plain, unadorned robes of blue and cream. They walked unhurriedly around the circumference of the chamber until one stood at each window. Eight of them surrounded him and he could already feel a build up of power within the chamber, as though a charge of magical energy were even now being drawn up the length of the tower, gathering strength as it went from the mystical carvings worked into the walls.

The Sword Masters took up position behind Teclis, spinning their blades as smoothly as beams of light until they rested, point down, on the floor. They clenched their fists across the pommel stones and Caelir wondered what danger might require the presence of such formidable warriors.

‘I am going to help you, Caelir,’ said Teclis, entering the circle as the mages at its cardinal points lowered themselves into cross-legged postures in one smooth movement. ‘Together we are going to find out what you know. Are you ready?’

‘I am ready,’ said Caelir, and Teclis nodded.

A shimmering nimbus of light built around the crescent moon on Teclis’s staff and a depthless resonance saturated his voice. To Caelir it seemed as though the Loremaster’s physique had swelled, the magic flowing into his frail body only barely contained within his frame.

The mages around the circumference of the circle began to chant and Caelir recognised songs of rebirth and cantrips of restoration he had heard Kyrielle mutter during his time in her father’s winter palace.

Shimmering will-o’-the-wisps reflected in the blades of the Sword Masters and Caelir swallowed as he understood the magnitude of the power being wielded here.

He held on tightly to Kyrielle’s hand as he felt something stir within him, something awakened by the unique aura of the Loremaster’s magic. Was this his memories struggling to the surface, unlocked by Teclis’s power?

Teclis advanced towards him, the moon goddess on his staff blazing with white light, though Caelir could feel no heat from it as the Loremaster lowered it towards him. Words of power spilled from Teclis and the walls of the chamber seemed to pulse with the rhythm of a heartbeat in time with his speech.

The mages around the circle rose to their feet, their arms describing complex symbols, and Caelir felt the power of Teclis’s magic reach inside him, plumbing depths to which Anurion the Green’s magic had not dared descend.

But the magic employed here was an order of magnitude greater than that which Anurion could wield, for Teclis was the most powerful and learned mage in the world. Even the greatest archmages of Ulthuan counted themselves fortunate if granted the opportunity to sit at his feet and learn the mystic arts.

Like a vital tonic introduced to his blood, the magic of Teclis thundered through Caelir’s body and he could feel a colossal surge of magical power build within the chamber as the barrier between Teclis and what lay within him was stripped away. He wanted to fall to the floor, but his limbs were locked rigid, his grip on Kyrielle’s hand unbreakable.

He shuddered as layers were stripped away and he felt his body respond to the Loremaster’s magic. Teclis loomed above him, his blazing staff and fiery eyes terrifying in their determination to uncover whatever secrets he concealed…

Caelir closed his eyes to shut out the awful hunger for knowledge he saw in Teclis’s eyes, turning his gaze inwards to see what secret history was now being revealed. He heard voices raised in concern, but could make no sense of them, the words meaningless as he looked deep into the pit of his stolen memories and being.

As though he looked into the depths of a forgotten chasm, he saw a formless shape rushing towards him, all restraint and barriers to its return now stripped away by the awesome power of Teclis. Hope surged bright and hot and his eyes opened wide, pearls of light streaming down his cheeks like glittering tears of starlight.

He saw Teclis before him, crackling arcs of magic playing about his head and his robes billowing as though he stood within a mighty hurricane. The Loremaster’s feet had left the floor and swirls of light and howls of wind kept him aloft as chain lightning leapt from the outstretched hands of the mages around the circle.

‘It’s working!’ shouted Caelir. ‘I can feel it!’

He turned to Kyrielle and a hot jolt of fear seized him as he saw her face twisted in an agonised grimace of pain. Anurion was screaming, but Caelir could not hear the words as Teclis brought his staff up and searing blasts of lightning erupted from the edges of the circle.

Caelir struggled to understand what was happening, suddenly aware of a monstrous power building in him that had nothing to do with that employed by Teclis.

No, this had been inside him all along; dormant, concealed and lying in wait…

The magical wards placed within him had not been entrapping his memories, but something far older and infinitely more malicious.

Too late, he recognised the danger of the trap and the ancient cunning that had gone into its concealment.

Too late, he realised that this hellish energy had been waiting within him for exactly this moment, its architects knowing that only the power of the greatest mages of Ulthuan could unlock the wards they had placed around its infernal strength.

He could see their scheming eyes: dark, violent and filled with thousands of years of hatred for him and all his kind. Monstrous, diabolical laughter bubbled inside him and dark magic surged from its living host, erupting with the force of a million thunderbolts.

Purple-edged lightning roared from his eyes and ripped into Teclis, hurling him against the chamber’s wall and savaging him with forked tongues of daemonic wrath.

Raw magic, unfettered by the rigid control of a mage, exploded through the chamber in a whirlwind of howling madness, tearing open great rents in the fabric of reality. Gibbering laughter and bellows of rage-filled hunger echoed as the denizens of the nightmare realms beyond the physical sensed the breach in the walls between worlds…

Caelir screamed as the chamber exploded in a firestorm of magic.

Yvraine led the way through the forest, passing bright conversation with the Sword Masters they encountered and Eldain could hardly credit the change that had come over her. Gone was the tight-lipped ascetic who gave little of herself away in her mannerisms or words, and in her place was a warm, likeable elven maiden who spoke with wit and vitality.

He shared a look with Rhianna and said, ‘Homecoming suits her.’

Rhianna smiled, then the smile vanished and she cried out, her face a clenched fist of pain.

The scream cut through the air with its primal urgency and heads everywhere turned towards her. The birds took to the air in a frantic cloud of white feathers and the forest, which had seconds ago been welcoming and abundant, was suddenly shrouded in fear.

Eldain dropped from Lotharin’s back as Rhianna toppled from the saddle, her hands slack and lifeless, and runnels of blood streaking her cheeks where they seeped from her eyes. He caught her before she hit the ground and held her close as she wept terrified tears.

‘Rhianna!’ he cried. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

She did not answer him, her attention fixed upon some terrible sight beyond him.

He twisted to look over his shoulder and his eyes were drawn to the top of the Tower of Hoeth, where dark thunderheads of magic swirled and red lightning seethed like whips of blood.

‘Isha’s mercy! Rhianna, what is that?’

Rhianna shook in his embrace, wrapping her arms around him in fear and pain.

‘Evil…’ she gasped. ‘Dark magic!’

Eldain looked back at the shuddering tower as Sword Masters ran towards it, their gleaming blades unsheathed. Yvraine remained at his side, staring in horror at a number of objects falling from the topmost spire of the tower.

They were little more than flaming dots at the moment, and he frowned as he tried to make sense out of what he was seeing.

‘Oh no…’ wept Yvraine.

Horrified, he saw that the falling objects were screaming figures.

Robed acolytes of the tower or mages, he couldn’t tell, for unnatural black fire consumed them as they plunged to their deaths. Trails of smoke followed them down, alongside sparkling balls of magical light that exploded like the liquid fire some human ships were wont to use in battle.

Flames leapt into existence as one of the magical fireballs slammed into the ground before him, streamers of dirty light leaping back into the air and causing Lotharin to rear up and cleave the air with his hooves.

Eldain pulled Rhianna to her feet as the flames of magic devoured the trees and monstrous laughter, rich with spiteful glee, came from within.

‘Yvraine!’ cried Eldain as a darting, multi-coloured creature – part hound, part dragon – emerged from the light, as though passing through a gateway from some nightmarish realm of fire.

The Sword Master spun on the spot, her sword already in her hands as the beast leapt at Eldain, wings of magical fire spread out behind it. Its face was a fanged horror of flames and bone, its skull that of a dead thing. Talons the length of Eldain’s forearms and wreathed in rainbow light slashed for Yvraine, but she somersaulted over the beast and struck downwards with her sword as she passed overhead.

The beast roared in pain, trailing scads of fire from a glittering wound in its back.

Even before she landed, Yvraine twisted in mid-air and slashed her blade across its wings.

More Sword Masters rushed to help her, but for all her youth, Yvraine displayed no fear in the face of such a terrible foe. Once again she closed with the creature of fire, rolling beneath a lethal slash of its claws and vaulting from a low branch to spin above the creature as it reared up to its full height.

Her boots slammed into its searing breast and her sword spun a silver arc as she beheaded it with a looping slash of her blade. Even as it fell, she surged backwards, twisting in mid-air to land before it once more, her sword raised before her as though she had never moved.

Eldain watched as more and more of the glittering fireballs rained down from the ruin of the tower’s top and dozens of vile monsters were birthed from the protoplasmic magic. Horrors of unknown dimensions, twisted monsters and unspeakable abominations ran riot, slaughtering anything in their path as they thrashed in rage at the agony of their existence.

He longed to draw his blade and rush to fight alongside Yvraine and the Sword Masters, but he could not abandon Rhianna, her body still weak at the presence of so much dark magic.

He dragged Rhianna from the path through the trees as a fine rain of shimmering droplets fell from above and Eldain shuddered, feeling as though someone had just walked across his grave at the rawness of magic in the air.

‘The magic…’ said Rhianna. ‘Oh no…’

‘What about it?’

‘The tower… it sits at a confluence of power… a focus for the magic around it, but something has broken the spells that keep it under control!’

Even as he formed the thought, he could taste a greasy, ashen taste in the air.

Not magic… but sorcery… the dark arts.

Screams and shouts echoed through the forest, bloodcurdling cries of pain and anger. Elven greatswords clove unnatural flesh, formed from the essence of magic, and though the Sword Masters were amongst the greatest warriors of Ulthuan, even they were only mortal.

Elven blood was being spilled.

The howling winds that engulfed the top of the tower spiralled down its length, whipping cords of lightning slamming into the ground and hurling bodies and vitrified chunks of rock high into the air with its force. Shrieking spectres of magic swooped and spun through the air like spiteful zephyrs, gathering up anyone in their path and tearing them apart with claws of glittering ice.

Eldain wrapped his arms around Rhianna as the base of the tower shuddered beneath the assault, the golden carvings worked into its structure blazing with incandescent power as they fought to contain the outpouring of uncontrolled magic.

‘We have to help,’ said Eldain. ‘We have to do something.’

Rhianna nodded, wiping the blood from her face and said, ‘If we are to get to the tower we need Yvraine. Remember what I told you on the Dragonkin?’

‘Yes,’ said Eldain, watching as Yvraine fought back to back with another Sword Master, their blows flowing like a ballet, spinning in and out of each other’s killing zone as they wove a shimmering steel path towards them. To fight with such skill was unbelievable and Eldain immediately cast aside any doubts he might once have harboured to her ability.

He was a fair swordsman, but no more than that.

But this…

This was skill that bordered on the sublime, unmatched by any of the other Sword Masters that fought around them. Eldain’s practiced eye could see the natural grace she possessed with the sword that elevated her skill beyond that of her brethren to another level entirely.

Eldain saw Yvraine deliver the deathblow to another creature of fire with a blindingly swift series of blows that even he could not follow. The Sword Master’s eyes sought them out and he waved to her as she ran towards them.

‘Are you all right?’ demanded Yvraine. ‘Is either of you hurt?’

‘No,’ said Rhianna. ‘We’re fine.’

Yvraine nodded in relief and Eldain could see the conflicting desires raging within her: to rush into battle beside her fellow Sword Masters or to protect those who had been entrusted to her care.

Eldain took her arm and said, ‘We need you with us. I can’t look after Rhianna and fight off those creatures as well. Your mission was to bring us safely to Rhianna’s father and it’s not finished yet.’

For a moment, he thought Yvraine was going to leave them anyway, but she nodded and said, ‘You are right of course. Come on, we cannot stay here, it is too exposed.’

Between them they picked their way through the trees, flashes of magical light and spurts of fire erupting from all around them as the Sword Masters and mages of the tower fought the rampant creations of uncontrolled magic.

Eldain saw a cabal of mages hurling bolts of blue-white light at a shrieking horror of tentacles and jaws; a Sword Master beheading a hydra-like creature formed from a dizzyingly bright spectrum of light and the trees of the forest writhing with unnatural life as the magic of the earth spasmed in pain.

A mage screamed as he was torn apart by a toothed whirlwind of magic. A Sword Master was turned inside out, his organs hanging wetly from his ravaged skeleton for an agonised second before he collapsed. Everywhere was chaos…the rampant vortex of magic spawning new and ever more bizarre creatures with every cascade of power from the storm raging at the tower’s top.

‘What in the name of Asuryan is going on up there?’ he shouted over the noise.

In the topmost chamber of the tower, Caelir screamed as the reservoir of dark magic hidden from sight and knowledge within him poured into the world. The top of the chamber was gone, blasted away by a howling geyser of dark light, and a roiling sky of unnatural clouds seethed above him. The mages that had once surrounded the circle were gone, burned and cast to their deaths far below, and only two Sword Masters had survived to protect their master against the onslaught.

Teclis’s body lay in a crumpled heap beside a ruined stub of blackened stone, all that had prevented him from falling to his death. His robes were a smouldering ruin, flickering black flames guttering on his chest and arms, and his flesh seared raw. The Loremaster barely clung to consciousness, the shrieking maelstrom of unleashed magic wracking his body with paralysing agony.

Manically shrieking pillars of sinuous fire sought to devour him, but the Sword Masters fought with sweeping silver blows of their greatswords to fend them off. But for their skill, the Loremaster might even now be dead. Anurion lay pinned to the floor, his face a mask of blood and terror as he stared at Caelir in horror.

Caelir felt as though the dark power flowing through him must soon consume him and he welcomed the oblivion, knowing it would finally end this pain. His limbs were locked rigid, but even as the latest wave of pain washed over him, he could feel its power begin to ebb. He looked over at Kyrielle as he heard her shrill voice rising in panic and fear.

He sobbed as he saw the dark magic ravaging her beautiful features, invisible tendrils thrashing within her flesh and draining it of life. Her pale, alabaster skin dried like ancient parchment, fine lines around her eyes and mouth deepening to become gaping cracks that bled like tears. Kyrielle’s mouth opened impossibly wide, bones cracking in her jaw as the colour drained from her lustrous auburn hair and became thin and ancient, like that of a corpse.

‘No… please no…’ he cried, desperately trying to release her hand.

But neither his desire to save her or any power he possessed could force his hand to loosen its grip. He wept as the magic consumed her, helpless to prevent these malignant energies from using her body until she was spent. Her skin peeled away from her face, the muscles beneath atrophying to dust and falling from her bones.

Even as he screamed her name, her bones could no longer support her wasted frame and the wondrous, beautiful girl that had been Kyrielle Greenkin was gone. At last his grip was released and she fell to the floor, a shattered husk of drained, desiccated flesh housed in a green dress.

Caelir felt control return to his limbs and dropped to the floor, hot tears of pain and grief streaming from his eyes. Pain burned within him, but at least it was physical pain and therefore finite. His body would heal and the fire in his bones would fade, but the ache in his soul… that would live with him forever.

Through tear-gummed eyes he saw the wretched bones that were all that remained of Kyrielle and he screamed her name, remembering the bright, beautiful soul who had pulled him from the ocean and saved him from her father’s carnivorous plant. She was dead and he had killed her as surely as if he had strangled her with his bare hands.

He stood as he felt the agony of her death, the fear and confusion that must have been her last thoughts. Caelir looked over to where Anurion lay, rendered immobile by grief or hostile magic, and said, ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t know…’

Caelir turned and walked to the edge of the tower as an all-consuming sensation of loss and regret flooded him. Already the dark clouds around the top of the tower were receding as the wards worked into the fabric of the tower began to regain control of the magic.

Thousands of feet below him, Caelir could see the anarchy surrounding the tower. Spots of fire lit the forest in dozens of places and smoke rose heavenward as trees that had stood for thousands of years were burned to ashes in the magical fires. He saw knots of Sword Masters fighting a legion of glittering monsters and could practically taste the blood that had been shed in defence of the tower.

Tears burned a guilty path down his face. So much death, and all of it his fault…

He had brought this evil here and that it had been others who placed it within him mattered not at all. So consumed by his need for answers was he that he had been blinded to the evil that lurked within him. Eltharion had been right not to trust him and only Teclis’s obsessive thirst for knowledge had prevented him from seeing the nature of the trap.

He heard a voice call his name and turned to see Teclis, supported by the two Sword Masters and horribly burned, struggle towards him.

Caelir turned and looked down at the distant ground.

‘No!’ cried Teclis, guessing his intention.

‘I am sorry,’ Caelir said and stepped from the tower.

Eldain drew his sword as they finally reached the tower, its white walls blazing with inner fire and the golden carvings blinding to look upon. He, Rhianna and Yvraine had fought their way through to the tower in stuttering fits and starts, the Sword Master cutting them a path through the magical creatures with lightning quick slashes of her sword.

Rhianna had regained her composure, each step taken that brought them closer to the tower reinvigorating her with the pure magic that flowed from it. Fierce battles raged on, with the Sword Masters linking up and fighting in disciplined phalanxes instead of the isolated struggles the initial attacks had forced upon them.

Yet even with such methodical precision, more and more of the horrific creatures were emerging from the slithering pools of magical energy shed by those that were slain. For every beast killed, more would rise to fight again and slowly, step by step, the Sword Masters were being forced back against the tower.

Eldain moved to stand alongside Yvraine, prepared to fight back to back with her as he had seen other warriors do, but she waved him away.

‘No, you cannot fight so close to me.’

‘Why not?’

‘You are not a Sword Master and are not attuned to our way of fighting. Without that knowledge, my blade would cut you down or yours would wound me. Fight alongside me, but not as my sword brother.’

Remembering how Yvraine’s blade and that of her fellow Sword Master had woven around one another, Eldain nodded, now understanding what a lethal mistake it would be to fight so close to her.

He moved away from her as yet more of the Sword Masters drew back to the tower. A host of shimmering monsters, formed from every nightmare imaginable, closed in and though the elven warriors displayed no fear, it was clear they could not fight off such numbers.

A hundred blades rose in unison as the beasts of magic surged forwards and battle was joined within a sword length of the White Tower. The Sword Masters were skilled beyond mortal comprehension and their weapons moved faster than thought, dazzling light cloven asunder with each precisely aimed blow. Though the odds were against them, not a single backwards step was being taken, but every second of the battle saw another elven warrior torn apart.

Eldain fought with all the skill he could muster, his sword cleaving through the jelly-like, immaterial flesh of the monsters. He ducked a sweeping tentacle of light, hacking through the limb with an upward sweep of his blade and bringing it back in time to block a razored claw aimed at his head.

Beside him, Rhianna fought with talents of her own. While she could wield a blade with no little ability, it was in the magical arts where her true skills lay. She conjured blazing walls of blue fire within the shambling ranks of the monsters that consumed them in shrieking waves. And where such flames arose, each creature was utterly destroyed, no residue of its ending creating others in its wake. Streaking tongues of flame leapt from her outstretched hands, but Eldain could see that she could not sustain such a tremendous expenditure of power for long.

Even as he despaired of winning this fight, a cascade of magical fire rained down upon the monsters. Explosions of white light exploded with retina-searing brightness as the mages within the tower finally unleashed their own powers in defence of their home.

Eldain cried in exultation as he saw that the tide of battle had turned.

The skill and sacrifices of the Sword Masters had bought the mages time to wrestle the rampaging energies of the tower back under control and now the full might of Sapherian magic was brought to bear.

He dropped his sword and turned towards Rhianna as she sagged against the tower, drained beyond endurance by the might of the magic she had unleashed.

‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘The battle’s over.’

She smiled gratefully, her flesh pale and waxen. ‘Thank Isha… I have no more to give.’

‘Don’t worry, it was enough.’

Rhianna shivered and Eldain felt as though the sensation travelled from her and into his own flesh. Eldain looked into her eyes and a shared moment of recognition passed between them, but recognition of what he could not say.

The noise of battle receded, as though an invisible fog had descended to deaden the senses. He looked back at Rhianna and knew she was experiencing the same thing.

‘What…’ he began, but stopped as he saw the look of wide-eyed shock upon her face.

He followed the direction of her gaze and his heart was seized in a clammy fist.

Standing amid the dying army of magical creatures was a bewildered looking elf, his features the mirror of Eldain’s own.

‘It can’t be…’ he said.

Caelir.

Instead of thin air, his foot stepped onto solid ground.

Caelir felt the same shift in reality he’d experienced when he’d first set foot in the Tower of Hoeth; that same sense of magic changing things because it could. Once again he’d travelled the length of the tower, but this time he had not wished it to. This time he had wished for the rush of air past his falling body as everything ended peacefully.

But as the magic of Ulthuan rushed in to fill the void so recently gouged in his soul by the outpouring of dark magic hidden within him, all thoughts of oblivion fled from his mind and a wracking sob burst from his chest. He realised how close he had come to an inglorious death and the thought horrified him beyond belief.

No… if he was to atone for this monstrous debacle, then he would need to live. He would need to survive and finally discover what had been done to him and why.

Caelir stood, fresh resolve filling him as he took stock of his surroundings. He stood at the base of the Tower of Hoeth, at the edge of the charred remains of the forest he and Kyrielle had ridden through with Anurion…

Kyrielle!

He closed his eyes as the image of her terror flashed across his mind, her once perfect features melting down to the bone as the dark magic consumed her. The grief was still raw and bleeding and it took an effort of will to force it down to a level where he could still function. He would mourn her properly later, but for now he had to keep moving.

A host of armoured Sword Masters fought creatures the magic had summoned, cutting them down with deadly grace and skill. Flashing spears of fire were hurled from the tower and white flames leapt from the ground in rushing walls to burn them.

The battle for the tower was almost won, and though the shimmering army of monsters was doomed, they fought on with no regard for their ultimate fate. Caelir had little doubt as to his fate should the Sword Masters take him prisoner; their brethren had been killed and the Loremaster wounded almost unto death, so he turned and ran for the forest.

He heard a shout behind him and saw a figure break from the ranks of the Sword Masters and come running towards him. She wore long, flowing robes and her honey gold hair trailed behind her like the banner of an Ellyrian Reaver. She was beautiful but haunted, and Caelir could not bear the pain he saw there.

He reached the forest, zigzagging between fire blackened trees that wept sap and leaping fallen bodies. Caelir heard more shouts behind him, but paid them no heed in his desperation to escape. He skidded to a halt in a clearing that remained untouched by the fire, seeing a trio of magnificent steeds standing together by the body of a fallen Sword Master. The ground glistened with blood and the residue of magic like morning dew and Caelir instantly saw that two of the steeds were unmistakably of Ellyrian stock.

Caelir almost laughed in relief to see such a welcome sight and made his way towards them. They whinnied with pleasure to see him and the Ellyrion mounts came up and nuzzled him affectionately. The familiarity of the steeds was like a touchstone to him and he wept to see such reminders of a homeland he could not recall.

One of the steeds was jet black, normally considered unlucky to the riders of Ellyrion, but it was a fine and strong beast. Its companion was smaller and less muscled, but no less majestic. The third horse was a silver Sapherian mount and it too sought to welcome him, behaviour not normally expected from such haughty beasts.

He sensed a strange familiarity to these horses, as though he knew them from an earlier life, but there was no connection, no remembrance of their names or personalities.

‘Would you bear me away from this place, friend?’ said Caelir, running his hands down the flanks of the black horse.

The horse bobbed its head and Caelir said, ‘Thank you.’

He vaulted onto the horse’s back and gathered up its reins as he heard running footsteps drawing near to him. Through the trees he could see the maiden he had seen earlier and another pang of familiarity stabbed home. Before her ran a warrior with a bared blade, his features partially obscured by the play of shadows through the smoke and trees.

Like the elf maid there was a familiarity to them, but…

Then the light shifted and Caelir cried out as he saw that the warrior’s features were his own…

‘Wait!’ shouted his doppelganger, but Caelir was not about to obey any such commands.

He turned the horse with the pressure of his knees and rode off for the northern horizon.

Like Anurion before him, Teclis had been unable to lift the curse of his forgotten memory, but Caelir remembered that Anurion had spoken of another powerful individual who might help him discover the truth of his life.

The Everqueen.