Chapter Fourteen

Companions

Warm sunlight filled the pavilion, but the warrior within cared little for the delicate aromas carried on the cooling breeze. He stood naked but for a white loincloth as two of the beauteous handmaidens of the Everqueen oiled his flesh before scraping him clean with ironwood knives.

His muscles were hard as stone and perfectly sculpted, the perfection of his form marred only by the many scars that crossed his body. All these old wounds were to the fore and it was clear that this warrior had faced every enemy head on and had never once retreated from a fight.

Long blond hair streamed from his temples and the maidens bound it into braids with iron cords to prevent an enemy blade from cutting it and depriving him of his strength in the midst of war. Not that there were any skilled enough to perform such a feat, for this was Prince Tyrion of Avelorn, greatest warrior of the age.

He raised his arms and a long shirt of white was slipped over his muscled arms and shoulders, before being secured at the front with silver ties and buttons. Swiftly the handmaidens dressed Tyrion in soft leggings of pale blue before retreating to the corners of the pavilion as he sat a thin diadem of gold upon his brow.

Tyrion’s face was thunderous and at odds with the sounds of music and laughter that drifted in through the rolled sides of the pavilion. A burning pain filled his thoughts and his limbs ached as though he had been fighting continuously for a week.

Though his training and practice sessions with the Everqueen’s handmaidens had been as rigorous as ever he knew that this pain within him had a very different origin.

Teclis…

Ever since their youth, he and his twin brother had shared a bond that not even the wisest of the Loremasters could explain. What one felt, the other felt and now he experienced a measure of his brother’s pain as though inflicted upon his own body. Over impossible gulfs, each twin knew how fared the other and Tyrion knew some dreadful evil had befallen Teclis with every fibre of his being.

He closed his eyes and let the sound of the forest wash over him, hoping the gentle rhythms of his queen’s realm would soothe the troubles and pain that weighed heavily upon him.

He opened his eyes and stared at the suit of magnificent golden armour hanging on a wooden rack across the pavilion from him. No finer suit of armour had ever been forged, by elven craft or dwarven skill, and the sunlight seemed to flicker with an inner flame within its burnished plates.

Forged within Vaul’s Anvil, the Dragon Armour of Aenarion had been worn by his legendary forefather, the Phoenix King who had saved Ulthuan from the forces of Chaos in ancient times.

Tyrion’s father had presented the armour to him before the great victory of Finuval Plain and he had worn it in every battle since, its siren song to war never far from his thoughts.

As wondrous as the armour was, Tyrion knew it was a relic of a time long passed, a time when the mad fury of Aenarion waxed mightily and the fiery soul of the elven race had burned brightly upon the face of the world.

Such times were lost now and each time he donned the armour, he felt that loss keenly.

‘It calls to you, does it not?’ said a voice behind him and he smiled at the soothing, feminine tone as the words flowed like honey into his mind.

‘It does, my lady,’ said Tyrion, turning and dropping to one knee before his queen. ‘The curse of Aenarion lives on within his armour.’

The sun’s glory flowed with her and the pavilion was filled with light that had no source yet seemed to carry all the goodness and warmth of summer. The scent of fresh blossoms came to him and Tyrion felt his pain diminish and the warlike call of the armour recede.

‘It surely does,’ agreed the Everqueen and warm rain pattered softly on the roof of the pavilion. ‘His madness lives on and casts a shadow over us all, but please, my prince, stand. You of all people need not kneel before me.’

‘I will always bend the knee to you, my lady,’ said Tyrion, looking into the face of the most beautiful woman imaginable, the blessed child of Isha and most beloved scion of Ulthuan.

‘And I can never disobey you,’ he said with a smile, rising smoothly to his feet.

The Everqueen of Ulthuan moved without effort, her every gesture graceful beyond measure and her every word like the sound of spring’s first song. Her long gown clung to her shapely form and it filled his heart with love to have her near him.

Her name was Alarielle, the Everqueen of Ulthuan, and it was said her beauty could move even the immortal gods.

Just to have her address him was the most sublime pleasure, and to be her champion was an honour for which Tyrion knew he would never be worthy. Beyond her immaculate beauty, the Everqueen was bound to the land of Ulthuan like no other elf. Where she walked, new blooms followed in her wake. Where she sang, the world was a gentler place and when she cried, the heavens wept with her.

‘You would leave without saying farewell?’ she said.

Tyrion bowed his head. ‘War is coming, my lady. I am needed elsewhere.’

‘I know,’ she said and the light dimmed as she spoke. ‘I too have felt the tread of those who worship the Lord of Murder upon our land. They come with the followers of the Dark Gods to wreak great wrong against us.’

‘Then it is even more imperative I leave now, my lady.’

‘You go to your brother?’

‘I do,’ said Tyrion. ‘I feel his pain and I must go to him.’

‘Yes,’ nodded the Everqueen. ‘You must, but promise me you will heed what he says, for your heart will be filled with anger and you will seek to avenge his hurt.’

‘I will,’ promised Tyrion as the two handmaidens lifted his armour from the rack and began buckling it to his body. Breastplate, greaves, vambrace, gorget and pauldrons; each was fitted to his form as though designed for him and him alone.

With each piece of armour placed upon his body, Tyrion felt the peace brought by the Everqueen diminish and the warlike spirit of his people surge through his veins. Lastly he lifted his mighty weapon, the runesword, Sunfang, a blade forged in elder days to be the bane of daemons.

Tyrion buckled on his sword belt and accepted the last piece of his armour, a fabulously ornate helm decorated with glittering gems and sweeping golden wings. He reached up and slid the helmet down over his head, feeling the fire of Aenarion’s legacy overwhelm the last of his gentler qualities.

He turned to face the Everqueen and said, ‘I am ready now.’

‘May Asuryan watch over you, my champion,’ said the Everqueen, moving aside to let him pass.

Tyrion marched from the pavilion into a clearing within the forest of his queen, a wondrous kingdom of dreams that nestled beneath a patchwork sky of deepest blue. Tall trees with great, arching canopies of emerald green surrounded him and the sound of crystal laughter drifted from beneath their enchanted boughs.

Darting sprites whipped through the undergrowth and glimmering lights ghosted in the deepest reaches of the forest. Magic was in the air, taken deep into the lungs with every breath, and Tyrion felt an ache in his heart that he must leave.

Music and song filled the air and beautiful elves of both sexes danced beneath a rain of petals, garlanded with flowers and laughing as though the cares of the world were unimportant and far distant.

For a moment Tyrion despised them. What did such revellers know of the blood he had shed and the sacrifices he had made to keep them safe? How dare they dance and sing as though the darkness of the world was not their concern?

He was gripping Sunfang’s hilt when a gentle hand touched his and the rage fled from his body.

‘Calm yourself, my prince,’ said the Everqueen. ‘Do not let the curse of your forefather lead you down the same path he once trod. You resisted the call of the Widowmaker once, you will do so again.’

Tyrion let out a deep breath and turned as he heard the whinny of horses approaching and the joyous note of a silver clarion. He saw a group of armoured knights on horseback, a silver assemblage of glorious warriors in gleaming ithilmar armour and shimmering white robes. Their silver helms were polished to a mirror sheen and they carried long white lances tipped with blades that shone like diamonds in the dappling sun.

Each rode a pale white horse, draped in cloth of blue and white and armoured in flexible ithilmar barding that caught the sunlight in a multitude of glittering sparks.

At the head of the knights rode Belarien, Tyrion’s boon companion and most trusted lieutenant. Alone of the knights, his helmet was furnished with a set of feathered wings that swept back from the cheek plates, indicating that he was the leader of this warrior band.

Belarien led a magnificent white stallion sheathed in a caparison of deepest blue and armoured in a similar fashion to the other horses of the knights, though with a girth of gold and gems encircling his deep chest. But as Tyrion was above the knights, so too was his horse more magnificent than those of the Silver Helms.

This was Malhandir, a gift from the kingdom of Ellyrion and last of the bloodline of Korhandir, father of horses. No finer mount existed in the world and Tyrion felt a measure of his war-lust ease as he went to meet his steed.

Belarien handed him the reins and Tyrion climbed smoothly into the saddle as a crowd gathered to watch the knights depart. The Everqueen’s handmaidens sang songs of glory and musicians played epic laments from elder days as the knights’ guidon unfurled Tyrion’s personal banner.

The knights cheered as the wind caught the long streamer of crimson silk, revealing an embroidered golden phoenix entwined with the Everqueen’s silver dove.

Tyrion looked down from his horse and bowed his head towards the shimmering beauty of the Everqueen.

She smiled and a beam of yellow sunlight speared through the treetops to shine through the silken banner.

Tyrion felt his spirits soar, watching the phoenix ripple as though aflame.

‘Knights of the Silver Helm!’ he cried. ‘We ride for Saphery!’

Caelir rode through the morning, pushing the black horse hard as he journeyed towards the northern horizon. Though the battle of Finuval Plain had spread throughout the northern reaches of Saphery, he had ridden through the heart of it at last and the melancholy gloom of the moor receded with each mile that passed beneath him.

He had woken upon the hillock where the Witch King himself had stood on that fateful day when Teclis had struck him down and banished him from Ulthuan once more. Whether Caelir had been in any danger from the dark shadow from the past, he did not know, but if he had been imperilled, the spirits of the fallen Asur had recognised him as one of their own and kept him safe.

The image of the Witch King still burned in his mind, but it was a phantom, fading like a dream as he travelled onwards. The further he rode from the battlefield, the more he felt the elven land come to life, as though the magic of Saphery was only now reclaiming land tainted by the tread of its enemies.

He crossed slender rivers that flowed crystalline through the landscape and Caelir quenched his thirst in their waters, though hunger still gnawed at his belly. A night’s rest had refreshed his horse, and each time they stopped to rest, it ate heartily of the verdant grasses. His steed would have no problem reaching Avelorn, but he was going to need some nourishment before then.

Caelir reckoned upon reaching the realm of the Everqueen with perhaps another few days’ ride and he could just make out the bright green limits of the northern forests.

He had seen yet more signs of travellers, the trails of wagons and horsemen riding side by side across the moor now a familiar sight, and had decided to follow them in the hope of obtaining some food. He had no coin with which to buy it, but he still had the strange dagger that could not be drawn. It was of little use to anyone, but perhaps one of the travellers would find it curious enough to trade for a little sustenance.

Some hours after midday, Caelir and his mount reached a shallow ford and waded through the water. He tilted his head back, enjoying the cold, crispness of the meltwater as it splashed on the rocks marking the crossing and filled the air with refreshing spray and glittering rainbows.

On the other side of the river, he saw deep tracks in the sodden earth of the riverbank and slid from his saddle to examine them. Whatever other memories he had forgotten, he had not lost his skills as a tracker and knew this trail was no more than a few hours old.

Caelir leapt back onto his horse and rode onwards, pushing harder than he would normally dare. Darkness would be upon him soon and he had no wish to spend another night alone upon the Finuval Plain, even far out on the fringes of the battlefield.

The sun dipped into the west and the sky deepened from shimmering blue to dusky purple. He had all but despaired of catching up to the travellers before him when he saw a series of twinkling lights ahead, shining silver and gold in the gloaming.

He slowed his pace as he saw that the lights were not moving and heard voices raised in song followed by enthusiastic clapping. Music soared and he heard unabashed laughter wrung from many throats.

As Caelir drew closer, he saw three brightly painted carriages drawn up in a curved line, each decorated with gleaming lacquer that shone in the light of oil burners suspended from tall staves arranged in a circle around a colourful rug. A crowd of elves sprawled languidly on the ground before the rug, its surface decorated with twisting symbols and patterns that drew the eye in confusing spirals.

A delicate elf maid with winsome features danced in the centre of the rug, spinning and leaping with joy as music flowed through her. She danced with her eyes closed, her limbs flowing fluidly around her and her body seeming to float in the air as though held aloft by the notes.

Caelir saw the musicians at the side of the wide rug and for a fleeting second he had the distinct impression that the music was playing them, its desire to be heard and enjoyed using their breath and fingers as a means to manifest its bounty.

The audience watched the performance with rapturous eyes and Caelir found he could not tear his eyes from the maiden’s sensuous dance. Her skin gleamed in the torchlight and the gossamer thin fabric of her slip clung to her lithe, athletic form.

The music shifted in tempo, becoming faster and faster and driving the dancing girl to incredible heights of ecstasy. The audience whooped and cried as her form became a twisting blur of radiant skin and light.

Then suddenly it was over, the music died and the dancing girl made one final leap into the air. She twisted as she descended and landed gracefully in the centre of the rug, her head thrown back and her arms outstretched.

Applause exploded from the audience and Caelir found himself joining in, desperate to show his appreciation for this incredible performance.

The sound of clapping faded as the gathering became aware of his presence and he felt himself blush as open faces turned towards him with curious expressions.

Caelir slid from the back of his horse as a tall elf with lush features and long silver hair moved from the audience and came towards him. He extended his hand to Caelir.

‘Welcome, dear boy, I am Narentir,’ said the elf, his voice lyrical. ‘Will you join us?’

‘Caelir,’ he replied. ‘And yes, I will join you.’

‘Most excellent,’ said Narentir, guiding him towards the firelight. ‘I take it you liked Lilani’s performance then?’

Caelir nodded and the dancing girl threw him a coquettish grin before vacating the rug as other performers took her place.

‘Very much,’ said Caelir as Narentir handed him a silver goblet of smoky, aromatic wine. ‘I have never seen anyone move like her.’

‘I shouldn’t think you have, she’s a rare jewel is our Lilani.’

Smiling faces surrounded him as Narentir led him into the audience gathered about the rug. They were genuinely pleased to see him and Caelir felt the tension within his chest ease at the sincerity of the welcome.

He took a drink from the goblet and gasped in pleasure as it ran like liquid smoke down his throat. The wine was sweet, almost unbearably so, and its bouquet was that of a wild forest where creatures of legend still roamed free. Caelir smiled as it conjured visions of fabulous gardens, sun-dappled glades and the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine.

‘You’ve never had dreamwine before, have you?’ said Narentir as they sat beside the rug and the musicians began to play once more.

‘Yes,’ said Caelir, giddy from the taste, ‘but this is good. Very good.’

‘Be careful, though,’ said Narentir. ‘You shouldn’t drink too much of it.’

‘I have a strong stomach.’

‘It’s not your stomach you need worry about,’ smiled Narentir as he took another drink.

‘No?’

Narentir laughed. ‘Do as you will, dear Caelir. Perhaps it will help your performance.’

‘My performance? What performance?’

‘Everyone takes their turn upon the rug.’

‘But I’m not a singer and I can’t dance,’ said Caelir.

Narentir smiled. ‘That doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

Caelir opened his mouth to protest, but the elves standing on the rug began their performance and all other sounds ceased as they sang ancient songs of love and rapture. He wanted to tell Narentir that he could not entertain them, but his enjoyment of the singers drew out a remembrance of the unknown talents Kyrielle had discovered within him.

Another sip of wine relaxed him and Caelir smiled contentedly as he settled back to listen to the performance. The singers’ voices were exquisite, their music and lyrics swirling around the torchlit gathering like an unexpected, but wholly welcome guest.

Tears pricked Caelir’s eyes as he felt his soul take flight in time with their achingly beautiful melodies.

The ride back to Cairn Auriel was without the magic that had accompanied the ride towards the White Tower. It felt strange not to be riding Lotharin, though Irenya was a fine steed and bore him proudly on her back.

They rode in silence for much of the way, Rhianna lost in thought and Eldain unwilling to break the silence for fear of what might be said. Yvraine once again rode with them, Mitherion Silverfawn insisting that the young Sword Master accompany them, though now she rode a powerful Sapherian gelding.

After seeing her martial prowess in battle, Eldain wasn’t inclined to gainsay the mage, and welcomed her presence. If war were coming to Ulthuan, there were worse things to have at your side than a Sword Master of Hoeth.

The land itself seemed to recognise the strained mood that had settled upon them and restrained its more outlandish excesses of enchantment. Magic still permeated every breath and whispering sprites gusted through the long grasses with wild abandon, but Eldain paid such sights no mind, too preoccupied with Caelir’s survival and the absurd notion of hunting his own brother.

The subject of what would happen when they caught up with Caelir had arisen when they drew near the cliff top path that led down to Cairn Auriel.

‘I wonder if he will remember us,’ said Rhianna, breaking the silence of their journey.

‘I don’t know,’ said Eldain. ‘He didn’t seem to back at the tower.’

‘But maybe seeing us jogged his memory, brought something back.’

‘Perhaps, but will it make any difference if he does remember us?’

‘It will to me,’ said Rhianna. ‘I can’t bear the thought of him forgetting us.’

‘Us?’

‘You. Me. His life. Can you imagine how that must feel, Eldain? Not remembering your childhood, your parents, your friends–’

‘Your lovers?’ interrupted Eldain and he hated the caustic tone he heard in his voice.

Rhianna sighed. ‘Is that what you are afraid of? That if Caelir’s memory returns and we get him back that I will leave you for him?’

‘Wouldn’t you? You were betrothed to him once.’

Rhianna rode close to Eldain and reached out to take his hand. ‘Caelir is alive and for that I give thanks to Isha, but I have made a commitment to you, Eldain. You are my husband and I love you.’

Eldain felt his throat constrict and squeezed Rhianna’s hand, wishing he could truly believe what she was saying. ‘I’m sorry. I just… I just don’t want to lose you. I lost you to him once before and… I don’t think I could again.’

‘You won’t, Eldain,’ promised Rhianna. ‘I can’t deny that seeing Caelir again brought back a lot of emotions, but much has changed since he and I were together. You and I are married. And there is blood on his hands.’

There is blood on his hands…

Eldain fought down the guilty nausea building in his stomach as Yvraine said, ‘There is also the question of what happened to him in Naggaroth. The druchii held him in the dungeons of the Witch King for over a year. The Caelir you both knew may no longer exist.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have heard it said that the loyal slave learns to love the lash,’ said the Sword Master. ‘Your brother may yet be an enemy of Ulthuan.’

‘What are you saying?’ said Eldain, hearing a cold anger in Yvraine’s voice.

‘I am saying that when we find Caelir, we may have to kill him.’

‘Kill him?’

Yvraine nodded. ‘Who knows what else he has been sent back to do? What if the trap to catch the Loremaster was just the first of his missions of assassination?’

‘I cannot kill my own brother,’ said Eldain, forcing the words from his mouth when he saw Rhianna’s look of horror at what Yvraine had just said.

‘You may have to,’ said Yvraine as she reached the cliff top path. ‘But if you can’t, I will.’

The Sword Master rode onto the path that led down the cliff to Cairn Auriel and Eldain and Rhianna shared a look of unease as they followed her. The idea that their hunt might end in blood had clearly not occurred to her, but in Eldain’s mind it had been the only possible outcome.

As he watched Rhianna ride onto the path, cold resolve hardened in his heart and he knew he would have no hesitation in striking Caelir down should the fates decree they stand face to face once again.

He had come so far and gained so much that he could not bear the thought of losing everything again. The guilt would always be with him, but no burden was too great to keep Rhianna by his side, no deed unthinkable and no price too steep.

A small fleet of ships bobbed in the glittering blue water against the floating quays of Cairn Auriel and red tiled dwellings rose up in tiered layers from the sea. Eldain thought the scene unbearably sad, picturing druchii ships sailing into the bay and fanatical warriors of the Witch King butchering women and children as the streets ran red with blood.

He shook off such grim images and rode onto the path. The blooms garlanded around the trellises were now white flowers of spring and the fragrances were those of the dawn.

Eldain passed beneath the flowers and picked his way carefully down to the settlement.

Captain Bellaeir was pleased to see them again, for it sat ill with him to have a crew idle when there were seas to cross and magical winds to be caught in the sails. His sailors had made friends with the other crews berthed in the harbour and news and rumours from across Ulthuan had quickly passed between them.

Yet more druchii ships had been spotted off the southern coasts of Ulthuan, but had apparently made no forays to shore. The skies above the Annulii were thick with birds crossing from one side of the island to the other and it was said that the magical currents roaring through the mountains were becoming more powerful.

More and more creatures were coming down from the mountains, drawn there by the dangerous currents of magic, and hunters from Chrace were fighting a near constant battle against unnatural monsters preying upon the inhabitants of the northern kingdoms.

Vaul’s Anvil rumbled and smoked as though the smith god himself was displeased and one crew claimed to have been caught in a storm in the seas around Avelorn, a sure sign of dark times ahead. Most of the other crews had scoffed at such a tale, but upon seeing the battering the ship had taken and the blackened scars of lightning impacts, they had retreated to their own vessels to ponder this evil omen.

More worrying, however, was the news that the druchii had landed on the western coast of Ulthuan. No one seemed to know exactly where, but as Eldain recalled Mitherion Silverfawn’s warning of terrible danger descending on Ellyr-charoi, he feared the druchii were even now marching upon one of the gateway fortresses that protected Ellyrion.

All across Ulthuan, citizen levies were being armed for war and portents of doom were being reported from Yvresse to Tiranoc. As they had ridden through Cairn Auriel, Eldain had felt the potent fear of its inhabitants upon the air like a contagion.

Captain Bellaeir had taken the liberty of purchasing supplies for the journey, though he had not liked the news of their destination.

‘The Gaen Vale?’ he said with a frown. ‘Not a place for the likes of us.’

‘No,’ agreed Eldain, ‘but we have no choice. The Loremaster himself has despatched us.’

Bellaeir nodded absently and looked out to sea. ‘I have sailed the waters of the Inner Seas for many years, my lord. When Finubar the Seafarer became the Phoenix King I saw the ironwood ship carrying him to the Shrine of Asuryan and followed long enough to see the great flame. In my youth, I sailed as close as any have dared to the Isle of the Dead and I saw the day of my own passing.

‘But in all my years as a seafarer, I have never once thought to venture near the Gaen Vale. The warrior women of the Mother Goddess jealously guard its shores and no male dares to set foot on that island. Any that try are never seen again.’

‘Then you and I will be sure to remain on board the Dragonkin while Rhianna and Yvraine go ashore,’ said Eldain.

Bellaeir sighed and left Eldain standing at the quay, directing Rhianna and his crew in getting the horses on board safely. They were intelligent beasts and none of them relished the prospect of being cooped up in the cramped hold of the sloop for several days.

Eldain couldn’t blame them and shrugged apologetically as Rhianna’s horse caught his eye and glowered at him. He saw Yvraine standing with her arms wrapped around herself, watching the sailors leading the horses onto the ship. The wind blowing in off the sea tousled her platinum hair and she was clearly not looking forward to another sea journey.

He made his way across the quay to stand beside her and said, ‘It seems you loathe travelling by sea as much as our mounts, Mistress Hawkblade.’

‘Can you blame me?’ she said.

‘I know why the horses dislike it,’ said Eldain. ‘In Ellyrion they are used to the freedom of the steppes, but why do you hate it so?’

Yvraine shrugged. ‘I do not like placing my fate in another’s hands. I prefer to be master of my own destiny.’

‘Can any of us claim that?’ asked Eldain. ‘Does the will of the gods not shape our future?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps it does, but I make my own choices and live by my own code.’

‘Does that code include killing my brother?’

Yvraine shielded her eyes from the low sun and said, ‘If that is what it takes to keep Ulthuan safe. Do not think to stop me.’

‘If Caelir threatens Ulthuan, I will wield the blade myself,’ said Eldain, surprised at the lack of feeling such an utterance caused within him.

‘Then we understand one another,’ said Yvraine, returning her attention to the horses.

‘It would appear so.’

An awkward silence fell until eventually Yvraine said, ‘Isha willing, your horses will soon know the freedom of the steppe again.’

‘You sound as though you’re not sure they will.’

‘Perhaps I am not,’ agreed Yvraine. ‘You heard what Lord Teclis said. The druchii are abroad and war is coming. None of us may see our homelands again.’

‘Are you worried you might not see Saphery again?’

‘No,’ said Yvraine, shaking her head. ‘It is the fact that I am leaving Saphery when war is coming that disturbs me. I should be with my brethren defending the White Tower as I swore to do.’

Eldain smiled grimly. ‘If Lord Teclis is right, then all of us will have to fight soon. I do not think it matters overmuch where we make our stand.’

‘It matters to me.’

‘Then for all our sakes I hope your blade fights where it is most needed,’ said Eldain.