—<NINE>—
Darkness Descends
The great hall was in pandemonium. Elves of all ages and stations had come from across the palace to hear what had happened. Yrianath stood beside the Phoenix Throne, Palthrain and many other nobles and councillors with him. As Alith pushed his way through the throng, there was an air of panic and desperation. Some elves were shouting, others weeping, many stood in shocked silence, waiting to hear the words of Yrianath.
“Be calm,” he cried out, raising his hands, but the cacophony continued until Yrianath raised his voice to a roar. “Silence!”
In the stillness that followed only the rustle of robes and quiet sobbing could be heard.
“The Phoenix King is dead,” Yrianath said solemnly. “Prince Malekith found him in his chambers early this morning. It would seem that the Phoenix King took his own life.”
At this there was another outburst of anger and woe, until Yrianath signalled again for the elves’ attention.
“Why would Bel Shanaar do such a thing?” demanded one of the nobles. It was Palthrain who stepped forwards to answer the question.
“We cannot know for sure,” said the chamberlain. “Accusations had come to Prince Malekith that the Phoenix King was embroiled with the cults of pleasure. Though Malekith disbelieved such claims, he has sworn in this very hall to prosecute all members of the cults, regardless of station. His own mother is still imprisoned in this palace. When the prince went to Bel Shanaar’s chambers to confront him with the evidence, he found the Phoenix King’s body, with the marks of black lotus on his lips. It seems that the charges were true and Bel Shanaar took his own life rather than face the shame of discovery.”
The hall shook with a rising clamour as the elves surged forwards, making demands of Palthrain and Yrianath.
“What charges?”
“What evidence was presented?”
“How can this have happened?”
“Are the traitors still here?”
“Where is Malekith?”
This last question was asked several times, and the call grew louder and louder.
“The prince of Nagarythe has departed for the Isle of Flame,” said Yrianath when some measure of order had been restored. “He seeks to inform Elodhir of his father’s demise, and to take guidance from the council of princes. Until Elodhir returns from the council, we must remain calm. The full facts of what has occurred here will be brought to light, rest assured.”
Though still much distressed, the elves were somewhat quietened by this statement and instead of angry shouts, a conspiratorial murmuring filled the hall. Alith ignored the buzz of gossip and the tearful lamentations and turned to Milandith. Her cheeks were wet with tears and he clasped an arm around her and pulled her close.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, though he knew his words to be a lie.
A strange atmosphere enveloped the palace over the following days. There was little activity and Alith could sense that his fellow elves were each trying to come to terms with what had transpired. Few were willing to talk about their shock and grief, which was unusual in itself, and fewer still would mention the circumstances surrounding Bel Shanaar’s death. There was an undercurrent of suspicion, formless and unspoken but palpable.
Alith’s first thought was to leave the city, now that he was no longer bound by his oath to Bel Shanaar, but he decided against this course of action. Though events could threaten to expose him, he heard no hint or rumour concerning his arrival not long before Bel Shanaar’s demise. To leave hastily would perhaps invite more attention than staying.
Instead, Alith stayed close to Yrianath, as required by his position and as his curiosity desired. The prince was as shocked as any by the tragic turn of events and seemed content to await Elodhir’s return rather than take any lead himself.
Bel Shanaar’s body was made ready for interment in the great mausoleum of his family in the depths of the mount beneath Tor Anroc. The funeral proceedings could not start without Elodhir, and so the elves found themselves in a spiritual limbo, unable to publicly express their grief. For once, Alith missed the idle chatter that used to distract him so much. In the echoing quiet of the palace his dark thoughts resounded all the more.
Sixteen days had passed when new arrivals caused a great stir in the palace. Alith had been attending to Yrianath, who was in discussions with Palthrain concerning the funeral arrangements of Bel Shanaar. A herald entered hastily, announcing that he had come from the Isle of Flame.
“What news of Elodhir?” asked Yrianath. “When can we expect his return?”
At this, the herald began to weep.
“Elodhir is dead, among many other princes of Ulthuan,” he wailed.
“Speak now, tell us what has happened!” demanded Palthrain, grabbing the messenger by the arms.
“It is a disaster! We do not know what happened. A mighty earthquake shook the Shrine of Asuryan, and there were signs of violence. When we entered, only a few princes had survived.”
“Who?” insisted Palthrain. “Who survived?”
“A handful only came out of the temple,” said the herald, almost buckling at the knees. “So many nobles dead…”
The herald swallowed hard and straightened, wiping a hand across his eyes.
“Come,” he said, turning towards the door.
Alith followed a little way behind Palthrain and Yrianath, and they seemed content to allow him, if they even noticed his presence. The herald took the group across the courtyard and out of the great gate of the palace where a large crowd had gathered. There were many carriages, each draped in white awnings. Tiranoc soldiers held back the throng, casting their own shocked glances back towards the coaches. Palthrain forced his way through the crowd and Alith followed in his wake.
The chamberlain pulled back one of the white curtains and Alith caught a sight of Elodhir, lying upon a bier inside the carriage. His face was as white as snow and he was laid upon his back, arms folded across his chest. Yrianath gasped and looked away. Just before Palthrain allowed the curtain drop back, Alith thought he saw the red mark of a wound across the dead prince’s throat, but so brief was the glimpse that he could not be sure.
Another elf came striding through the carriages. She was clad in silver armour and a black cloak. Alith immediately recognised her as Naggarothi and shrank back towards the other elves, though he did not know her. She spoke briefly to Palthrain and pointed at one of the other carriages. An expression of dread passed over Palthrain’s face before he composed himself. Without a word, he turned and hurried back into the palace.
Yrianath sent the captains of the guard to bring more soldiers from the city. With a stone-faced expression the prince gave instructions for the staff of the palace to begin moving the dead Tiranocii nobles inside. Alith was pleased not to be counted amongst the number tasked with this unpleasant chore, and stayed out of sight as best he could.
The grisly labour was interrupted by shouts of dismay from the crowd around the gates. Alith turned to see Palthrain ordering elves out of his path. He was followed by a contingent of the Naggarothi warriors who had come with Malekith. They created a line through the thronging elves and behind them strode another.
She was tall and stunningly beautiful. Her long black hair fell in lustrous curls about her shoulders and back, and her alabaster skin was as white as the stone of the gate towers. Her dark eyes were fierce and Alith flinched from their gaze as the elf stared scornfully at the assembled watchers. Alith knew her immediately and felt fear grip his heart.
Morathi.
The crowd fell back in fear as she swept through the gate, the train of her purple dress streaming behind her, boots ringing on the flags of the road. Her full lips were twisted in a sneer as she surveyed the frightened mass. As soon as she came within sight of the carriages, her entire attention was fixed upon them and so swift was her stride that Palthrain had to run to keep pace.
He led her to one of the coaches and Morathi threw back the coverings with a beringed hand. She fell to her knees and uttered a shriek, an awful wail that pierced Alith’s mind and echoed from the walls of the palace. Looking beyond Morathi, Alith saw what lay upon the board of the wagon.
It was a blackened mess and at first Alith did not recognise what it was. As he forced himself to look closer, Alith saw streaks of gold that had melted into rivulets and then solidified, and links of chainmail burned into charred flesh. It was the figure of an elf, obscene in its desecration. Two unblinking, unmoving eyes stared out and half of the elf’s body was seared down through flesh and muscle, revealing burned bone. Dark flakes fluttered from the corpse, drifting on the wind. Alith stepped a little closer and could make out something of the design on the figure’s breastplate, though it was much disfigured. It was the remnants of a coiling dragon.
At that moment Morathi rose to her feet and wheeled towards the watching elves. Her eyes were orbs of blue fire and her hair danced wildly in an unseen gale while sparks erupted from her fingertips. With cries of fear, the crowd turned and ran from the sorceress.
“Cowards!” she shrieked. “Look at this ruin! Face what your meddling has brought about. This is my son, your rightful king. Look upon this and remember it for the rest of your wretched lives!”
Elves were shouting and screaming as the stampede continued, pushing and pulling at each other as they tried to press back through the gatehouse. Alith ignored them, transfixed by the apparition of Malekith’s corpse. He felt sick, not just from the sight, but also from a foreboding that welled up in his stomach and froze his spine.
The tramp of many booted feet echoed around the plaza, joined by the clattering of hooves. Such elves as remained scattered ahead of a column of black-clad spearmen and knights: the rest of Malekith’s warriors. Like a black snake they advanced from around the palace and for a moment Alith feared that they would attack. They did not.
Instead they formed a guard of honour three thousand strong around the carriage as Morathi climbed aboard. Alith looked to the Tiranocii warriors to intervene, but those that had remained were afraid to confront the grim-faced soldiers in front of them. He did not blame them, and was rooted to the spot by the stern lines of spears and the immobile knights. Morathi signalled to the driver and the carriage moved away with a rattle of wheels and the crunch of the marching Naggarothi.
One of the captains of the Tiranoc guard stepped forwards, somewhat cautiously, hand on sword hilt at his waist. Palthrain intercepted the warrior and put a hand to his chest.
“Let them go, Tiranoc is well rid of them,” said the chamberlain. Without incident the Naggarothi left the plaza down the tunnel-road to the east, and then were out of sight.
With that, Prince Malekith passed out of Tor Anroc for the final time.
There was a deathly hush in the grand hall and an air of reverence surrounded the two bodies laid in state upon marble slabs either side of the Phoenix Throne. Though Bel Shanaar’s death remained contentious, he had ruled over Ulthuan for one thousand, six hundred and sixty-eight years and was accorded due respect from all present. Thousands of elves had filed past the Phoenix King’s remains, preserved by the attentions of priests dedicated to Ereth Khial, the blemishes of his poisoning removed by priestesses of Isha. Alith noted that Elodhir’s body wore a collared robe that concealed his neck and so was unable to confirm the wound he had thought he had seen in the carriage.
The doors had been closed after five days and only the household of the princes remained. Alith was in attendance to Yrianath, as were other servants to their masters and mistresses. The hall was almost empty, for many nobles from Tiranoc had travelled with the Phoenix King to the council of princes and not returned alive. The bodies of some had been brought back from the Isle of Flame and were with their families in the manses around the huge palace. Some had not returned at all and their fate remained unknown.
“A grievous wound has been done to Tiranoc,” declared Yrianath. He seemed just as stunned as when he had first looked upon Elodhir’s corpse. Beside him were Lilian, Elodhir’s widow, and the dead prince’s son, Anataris. She was draped head-to-foot in white robes of mourning, her face concealed behind a long veil, the babe in her arms swathed in white cloth. Of her expression, Alith could see nothing.
“Tiranoc will not stand idle in these times,” Yrianath continued. Though his words were meant to be defiant and stirring his voice was hollow. “We shall prosecute by whatever means those who have heaped this hurt upon us, and taken from Ulthuan its rightful ruler.”
There was a discontented rustle of voices and Yrianath frowned. He cast his weary eyes over the nobles.
“Now is not the time for whispers and secrets,” the prince said, gaining some vigour. “If there are any present who wish to speak their mind, they are free to do so.”
Tirnandir stepped forwards with glances to the rest of the court. He was the eldest member of the court after Palthrain, born just twenty years after Bel Shanaar’s ascension to the throne and respected as one of the Phoenix King’s wisest advisors.
“With what authority do you make such promises?” the noble asked.
“As a prince of Tiranoc,” replied Yrianath.
“Then you claim succession to the rule of Tiranoc?” asked Tirnandir. “By tradition, the line does not pass to you.”
Yrianath looked confused for a moment and then turned his eyes upon Lirian and Anataris.
“Bel Shanaar’s heir was Elodhir, and Elodhir’s heir is no more than three years old,” said Yrianath. “Who else would you propose?”
“A regent, to claim rule until Anataris comes of age,” said Tirnandir. It was clear from the nods of other council members that this had already been discussed in private.
Yrianath shrugged.
“Then as regent I will make these promises,” he said, uncomprehending of any cause for objection.
“If a regent is to be appointed, then he or she need not be of the descent of Bel Shanaar,” said Illiethrin, the wife of Tirnandir. “You are no more than six hundred years old, there are many in this hall better suited to the role of regent.”
Palthrain intervened before Yrianath could reply.
“These are uncertain times, and our people will look to us for leadership,” said the chamberlain. “It is not proper that the stewardship of Tiranoc passes far from the royal line. Other realms are facing the same woes as we, and surely our enemies will exploit any dispute to their own purposes. Yrianath has a claim by blood that is strong and with such advisors as are gathered here, his policies can yet be wise. To do otherwise invites claim and counter-claim by those who seek to undermine the true rule of Ulthuan.”
“And where is that true rule to be found?” snapped Tirnandir. “There is no Phoenix King, and we have had no word from the council of princes regarding a successor. Morathi has been let free once more, and her ambition will not have been dimmed by twenty years of imprisonment. No doubt she will put forth some claimant of her own. Does the elf we choose here also take on the Phoenix Crown and cloak of feathers?”
“I do not seek the Phoenix Throne,” Yrianath said hastily, holding up his hands as if to ward away the suggestion. “It is for Tiranoc that I will act. Other kingdoms shall surely look to themselves at this time.”
There was angry muttering and Palthrain raised his hand for silence.
“Such a matter cannot be decided in a moment,” he said. “All concerns can be raised and deliberations made in due course. It is unseemly to squabble in this fashion, here beside the body of our Phoenix King. No, this will not do at all.”
“We will talk on this matter again when respect has been paid to the deceased and the memory of our lord properly regarded,” said Tirnandir with an apologetic bow. “It is not division we seek, but unity. Ten days hence we will convene again and make such petitions as are required.”
The nobles bowed to the bodies of the dead, and a few nodded their heads to Yrianath as they left, but several darted suspicious glances at the prince. Alith believed Yrianath beyond reproach, for he had been in the prince’s entourage for several seasons and seen or heard nothing to raise his suspicions. However, the sudden removal of both Bel Shanaar and Elodhir had left the subject of succession wide open for debate, as Alith suspected those who had perpetrated the deaths had intended.
Though these lofty concerns occupied a little of Alith’s thoughts while the final arrangements were made for the twin funerals, he was mostly concerned for events in Nagarythe. He decided that as soon as the ceremony was concluded, he would head north and rejoin his family. Who could say what chaos reigned with Prince Malekith dead?
The burial rites of the Phoenix King and his son would be long, even by elven standards, and were due to last ten days. On the first day, Alith joined a long line of mourners who passed by the dead to celebrate the lives of those who passed. Poetry was recited praising the achievements of Bel Shanaar as both a fighter in the time of Aenarion and a king in times of peace. Under his auspices, the elven realm had grown every year, so that the colonies of Ulthuan stretched across the world to the east and west. The alliance with the dwarfs in Elthin Arvan was lauded by a choir of three hundred singers, and this irritated Alith more than he had thought it would. In those conversations he had shared with Yeasir at Elanardris, the commander had made it clear that it was Prince Malekith who had forged the friendship with the dwarfs and Alith was inclined to agree.
The second day was spent in silence, the whole of Tor Anroc eerily quiet as the populace meditated upon the memories of Bel Shanaar and Elodhir. Some would write down their thoughts in verse, others kept their recollections to themselves. This period of solitude gave Alith time to sit in his room and think deeply on what had happened. His thoughts were never focussed on one thing, and he reached no conclusion as to what had passed or what he needed to do next. He longed more than ever to return to the mountains and the support of his family.
Thinking of Elanardris took Alith onto a dark path, and he horrified himself with all kinds of fearful imaginings of what might await his return. He had received no word from family or friend for almost a year and he did not know whether any were still alive. The frustration he had felt over that period welled up inside him in one wave and he vented his anger and fear with violence, smashing lamps, tearing at the sheets on his bed and driving his fists into the walls until his knuckles were bleeding heavily. Panting, he collapsed onto the floor, weeping uncontrollably. He tried without success to fight back the images of torment that assailed him, until long after midnight he fell into an exhausted sleep.
When he awoke, Alith found himself refreshed, though no more optimistic than he had been the night before. Though shared by no other, his personal outpouring had cleared his mind and he knew what he needed to do. His decision to remain at Tiranoc for the ceremony of burial was simply an excuse to delay his inevitable return. While ignorance tortured Alith for the most part, it also gave him hope, a hope that might be crushed as soon as he returned north. He realised he was being immature, seeking reasons to keep himself in this vacillating state, and set about packing up such possessions as he would need on the journey.
There was a knock on the door and Alith pushed the half-filled pack beneath his bed before opening it. It was Hithrin, who glanced at the destruction Alith had wrought the night before but made no comment.
“We are to attend our master, Alith,” said the steward, not unkindly. “He is to receive an important guest at midday. Tidy yourself up and come to his chambers as soon as you can.”
Hithrin gave Alith a look of sympathy and then walked away. The look was like a barb to Alith’s pride and he busied himself clearing up the ruin he had made of the room and dressed himself carefully. This menial activity allowed him to gather his thoughts after the interruption and he weighed up whether to attend to Yrianath or depart straightaway. Alith decided to remain a little while longer, intrigued to find out what manner of guest would call upon Yrianath at this time of mourning.
The reception for Yrianath’s visitor was a sombre, stately affair. Alith, amongst the other servants, had prepared a simple cold luncheon in the lower east chamber, a small hall overlooked by two galleries. Just before the prince’s guest was due to arrive, the servants were asked to leave and Alith filed out with the rest of them.
He was perturbed by this secrecy and slipped away from the other staff as they made their way back to the servants’ quarters, doubling back to the hall. Using the serving stairs normally employed to bring trays of food and drink to parties gathered on the galleries, Alith slipped unseen into the main chamber. High windows lined the south and north walls of the hall, but shed little light on the galleries, which were usually lit by lanterns when in use. From the hazy gloom, Alith peered down into the hall.
Yrianath was sat at one end of the long table, the platters of food arrayed before him. He picked nervously at their contents until there was a resounding knock at the door.
“Enter!” Yrianath called out, standing.
The door opened and a functionary bowed low before ushering in the prince’s visitor.
Alith suppressed a gasp and shrank back towards the wall as Caenthras strode into the chamber, resplendent in armour and cloak. Yrianath hurried forwards and greeted the Naggarothi prince at the near end of the table.
Alith began to panic. Why was Caenthras here? Did he know of Alith’s presence, and if so what was his purpose in coming to Tor Anroc? The urge to flee before discovery gripped Alith and it took all of his nerve to remain where he was. He told himself that he was over-reacting, and that if he were to remain a while longer he would soon have the answers to these questions. He slipped forwards to the balustrade and nervously looked down on the elves below.
“Prince Caenthras, it is a pleasure to welcome you,” said Yrianath. “Long have we yearned for news from beyond the Naganath. Please, sit down and enjoy what hospitality one can in these dark times.”
Caenthras returned the bow and placed his helm upon the table. He followed Yrianath to the food and sat down at Yrianath’s right as the prince seated himself.
“These are indeed dark and dangerous times,” said Caenthras. “Uncertainty holds sway over Ulthuan and it is imperative that authority and order are restored.”
“I could not agree more, and may I offer my condolences to all in Nagarythe, who have also suffered the loss of a great leader,” said Yrianath, pouring wine for himself and his guest.
“I am here as official embassy for Nagarythe,” said Caenthras, picking up the goblet and swirling its contents. “In order that any turmoil is dealt with, it is vital that the rulers of Ulthuan work together. It is a woe to us, then, that so many realms are as yet without leaders, and we know not with whom to discuss these matters. I hear that Tiranoc is embroiled in such a debate at the moment.”
“I think embroiled is perhaps too strong a word…”
“Is it not true then that there is disagreement over who will succeed as ruling prince?”
Yrianath hesitated and sipped his wine as a distraction. Caenthras’ forceful stare did not waver and Yrianath put down his glass with a sigh.
“Issues have been raised over the succession,” he said. “As the oldest blood descendant I have offered to act as regent for the time being, but there is opposition from some of the other court members.”
“Then I should tell you that Nagarythe supports your claim to Tiranoc,” said Caenthras with a broad smile. “We are strong believers in tradition, and it is fitting that the relatives of Bel Shanaar succeed him.”
“If you could but convince my peers of my case, then the matter would be settled,” said Yrianath, leaning towards Caenthras with earnest intent. “I do not seek division, and a swift end to this matter is the best outcome for all concerned, so that we might turn our attention to graver issues.”
“Most certainly,” said Caenthras, patting Yrianath’s hand. “Stability is the key.”
Caenthras helped himself to a little food, arranging it carefully on his plate. When done, he cocked his head to one side and directed a thoughtful gaze at Yrianath.
“I would say that the word of one prince, an outsider at that, would do little to sway the opinion of the Tor Anroc nobles,” said the Naggarothi. “As a sign of support I am willing to petition certain other princes and officers of Nagarythe to travel to Tor Anroc and speak on your behalf. I am sure that having such allies will increase your standing and strengthen your claim beyond reproach. It is, after all, unity that we seek at this time.”
Yrianath considered this for a moment, but Alith could already see the trap being laid. If Yrianath wanted to be leader of Tiranoc he needed to do so from his own strength. Had not the Anars suffered greatly of late for relying too much on the support of others? Alith wanted to warn the prince not to agree, to tell him that it was a false bargain, but he dared not reveal his presence to Caenthras. Instead, he remained mute and watched the terrible plot unfold.
“Yes, that would seem a good course of action,” said Yrianath. “I see no problem with that.”
“Then might I impose a certain request upon you?” said Caenthras.
Here it comes, thought Alith as he watched Yrianath drawn towards the lure like a fish.
“Your northern border is closed to the Naggarothi,” continued Caenthras with a disarming shrug. “It is only by chance that I met one of your officers who would vouch for me, and thus allowed me to pass into Tiranoc. I fear such embassies as would come south on your behalf will not be so fortunate. I wonder if perhaps you could write me several letters of passage, which I might send to my fellow princes to act as permission to cross the Naganath with their bodyguards?”
“Well, yes, of course,” said Yrianath. “I will give you the seal of my princedom as a guarantee of safe passage. How many would you need?”
“Let us say a dozen,” said Caenthras, smiling. “You have many allies in the north.”
“A dozen?” replied Yrianath, flattered. “Yes, I see no reason why that cannot be arranged.”
The prince’s expression of happiness then faded and his shoulders slumped.
“What is the matter?” asked Caenthras, the picture of concern. “Is there some problem?”
“Time,” muttered Yrianath. “Deliberations are due to recommence at the ending of the funerals, only seven days hence. I fear my supporters will not arrive in time to swing the debate, and my rivals already arrange their arguments against me.”
“I have riders ready to go north at once,” said Caenthras. “I cannot guarantee that our friends will be able to reach Tor Anroc in seven days, but perhaps you could delay proceedings in some fashion.”
Yrianath brightened at this suggestion.
“Well, the discourse of court never runs swiftly,” he said, as much to himself as his companion. He gave Caenthras a determined look. “It can be done. I shall provide you with my seal before night comes. I am sure that a final decision can be averted until I can make my strongest case.”
Caenthras stood and Yrianath rose with him. The Naggarothi extended a hand, which the prince shook enthusiastically.
“Thank you for your understanding,” said Caenthras. “A new alliance between Nagarythe and Tiranoc will no doubt set our people on the path to greatness again.”
“Yes, it is time that history took its place behind us and we looked to the future once more.”
“A most progressive and commendable attitude,” said Caenthras. He turned for the door but then looked back at Yrianath after a few paces. “Of course, we will keep this arrangement between us for the moment, yes? It would be counter-productive if your opponents were to hear of what has passed between us.”
“Oh, that is for sure,” said Yrianath. “You can rely on my secrecy, as I can on yours.”
Caenthras gave another nod and a smile and then left. Yrianath stood for a moment tapping his fingers upon the tabletop, obviously happy. With a self-assured stride, he walked out of the room, leaving Alith alone in the silence.
As he had listened to the exchange between the princes, Alith’s fear had disappeared, to be replaced by anger. It was clear that Caenthras had long been manipulating events in Nagarythe to increase his own standing, and had worked against the Anars even as he had pretended to be an ally. Alith did not know how long this treacherous, selfish goal had driven Caenthras, but he looked on everything the prince had done with suspicion. Caenthras had once been a true friend of the Anars, of that there was no doubt, but somewhere, at some time, he had chosen to take a different path. The betrayal burned inside Alith, igniting the jealousy, fear and frustration that had been swirling inside him since Ashniel had been taken away.
Now that Caenthras’ plots were involving the rule of Tiranoc, there was a clear danger to all of Ulthuan. Caenthras had to pay for his duplicitous crimes.
The rites of passing for Bel Shanaar and Elodhir continued for the next seven days. There were ceremonies of mourning led by the greatest poets of Tiranoc, who recited anguished requiems to the Phoenix King accompanied by dirgeful wailings and choruses of weeping maidens. Alith found these recitations utterly lacking in originality or special significance, bland oratories of loss and woe that spoke nothing of those who had died. In Nagarythe, such verses would be filled with true lamentation for those who had been taken away, composed by the families who had lost a loved one. In all, Alith found these professional mourners to be overblown and impersonal.
The next day heralded the first of several rituals of sanctity during which the rightful priests and priestesses of Ereth Khial prepared the bodies and spirits of the deceased for the afterlife. These spiritualists were unlike the cults of the dead that had risen in Nagarythe. They sought not to converse with the supreme goddess of the underworld, but to protect the souls of the departed from the attentions of the ghost-like rephallim that served the Queen of the Cytharai. As with the mourners, Alith was left a little confused. In Elanardris it was well understood that the spirits of the dead would go through the gate to Mirai, there to dwell forever under the watchful eye of Ereth Khial. There was no fear, only acceptance that death is the natural conclusion to life.
Unlike the wild chanting and sacrifices Alith had witnessed in Anlec, these true priests bathed the bodies in blessed water and used silver ink to paint runes of warding on the dead flesh. He watched from the back of the attending crowds as they made whispered intonations to placate the rephallim, and wove chains of beaded gold around the limbs of the departed so that they would be too heavy for the vengeful ghosts to carry away.
During the funeral, Caenthras was housed as a guest of Yrianath and Alith had to move warily, to avoid discovery by the Naggarothi prince. He spied on the pair whenever the opportunity presented itself, which was rare, but was nearly always clever enough to pass on some duty that required his presence to another of Yrianath’s household. On occasion Alith was forced to take extreme measures to avoid being seen by Caenthras, ducking into doorways or running down halls on hearing his approaching voice. At one time he even resorted to hiding behind a curtain, something Alith had thought only occurred in children’s tales.
Simply killing Caenthras would not be as easy as Alith had first thought. Certainly slaying him without being caught was quickly looking impossible, as the prince never seemed to be out of company, either of Yrianath, Palthrain or some functionary of the palace.
While the keen edge of his hatred for Caenthras remained undiminished, as Alith observed the prince from afar, his vow to slay him was mollified by a desire to visit upon him the same min as he had perpetrated against the Anars. A simple knife in the back in the darkness would only cause more suspicion and grief, while an open challenge would reveal his presence and raise all number of unpleasant questions regarding his presence in the palace at the death of Bel Shanaar. On top of that, Alith was pretty certain that in a straight fight with Caenthras, the veteran of the wars against the daemons would surely win.
If Alith could understand more the nature of Caenthras’ scheming he would be able to bring about a more just downfall than simple death. Alith wanted Caenthras exposed and shamed before his life was ended. To do that he needed to know everything about Caenthras’ plans, his allies and his minions. That would mean awaiting the arrival of the other nobles who would vouch for Yrianath’s accession. For the time being, Alith was patient enough to stay his hand and see what was unveiled.
The day came for the final interment of the dead rulers of Tiranoc, and tens of thousands of elves travelled to the capital to pay their respects and witness this last journey. There were, some commented, few princes and nobles from other realms. Speculation was rife on why this might be so. The more pragmatic observers simply mentioned the travails that had beset Ulthuan’s rulers of late and suggested that most would be busy keeping order in their own lands. The more conspiracy-minded locals believed that there was a deliberate snub implicit in the absence of so many worthwhile citizens of Ulthuan. A few elves, after encouragement from friends who should probably have known better, even went as far as to say that the Phoenix King’s death was held in such suspicion by the other kingdoms that they feared to come to Tiranoc.
Alith’s own conclusion was that those princes who had survived the tragedy at the Shrine of Asuryan, of which there were very few by many accounts, had far more important things to do than doff their crowns to a dead body. Though some in Tor Anroc had forgotten, the uprising from the cults that had preceded the council of princes was still ongoing. It was the nature of folk to concentrate on their own perils and woes, and none in Tiranoc could consider the grief of other people to be anything like as great as theirs. For the sake of peace, Alith kept these opinions to himself when asked to venture his thoughts on such matters.
The bodies of Elodhir and Bel Shanaar were set in state upon the backs of two gilded chariots, each pulled by four white steeds. Three hundred more chariots rode in escort with the departed, followed by five hundred spearmen and five hundred knights of Tiranoc. Yrianath, Lirian, Palthrain and the other court members were also driven in chariots, decorated with chains of silver and flying the pennants of their houses, following behind the body of the Phoenix King.
Alith and the other servants were gathered in the plaza outside the gatehouse, which had been cleared of all other elves, so that they might witness the passing away of their former lords. Alith watched the thousands-strong cortege wind its way out of the palace grounds and take up station in the square. The golden chariots then emerged and all present gave up a great shout, declaring their farewells to the fallen king and prince. Sonorous pipes sounded from the towers of the palace to warn the city below, and the blue flames of the gatehouse flickered and died.
Alith had not known Bel Shanaar well, and had cause to resent some of his actions. Yet he could not stop tears forming in his eyes as he watched the procession clatter out of the plaza. Thus had passed the first Phoenix King since Aenarion, and the world ahead lay uncertain. No matter what came next, Alith knew that an age had ended and felt in his core that his generation would not know peace. Blood had been shed, the kingdoms of Ulthuan were divided and there were those who seemed determined to drag the elves down into darkness.
With the Phoenix King and his son interred within the sepulchres at the heart of the mountain, the business of the palace was soon abuzz with the succession. The servants were full of opinion as to who would be the more suitable prince to rule. However, all of their heightened speculation was to be for nothing. Yrianath claimed a sickness had befallen him, brought about by the grief of the funerals, and would not be able to participate in any debate whilst he was under the influence of this affliction.
“It must be a tremendous burden,” said Sinathlor, guard captain of the towers where Yrianath’s chambers were located. He and several others of the prince’s household were in the common room of their quarters, drinking autumn honeywine. Alith sat a little way apart, attentive to the discussion but far enough away that he need not participate directly.
“I am not surprised that he has been set low by this malady, not surprised at all,” added Elendarin, Stewardess of the Halls. She swept back her white hair and gazed at her companions. “He has always been of a delicately sensitive disposition, ever since he was a child. His empathy for the people’s grief is a tribute.”
Alith suppressed a disparaging remark at this saccharine observation, but Londaris, Steward of Tables, was not so polite.
“Ha! I have never seen anything so obviously false in my life,” he declared. “This very morning, I found the prince on his balcony taking in the dawn sun and he seemed as fit as a hunter’s hound.”
“Why feign such weakness?” argued Sinathlor. “Surely that gives argument to Tirnandir and his cronies?”
Alith was fascinated by the professional loyalty of the household of each noble, who would argue the cause of their master and mistress in the fiercest of debates, yet as soon as their role and duties changed would switch their defences to their new lord or lady. It was not so with Gerithon, whose family had served the Anars since Eoloran had founded Elanardris, or the other subjects of the house who owed their loyalty alone to their prince and their kingdom.
“Yes, it does,” Londaris was saying. “That is why I think it a risky move. I am sure the prince knows best, but I cannot see at the moment what advantage he gains.”
Another thing that occurred to Alith during the debate was that all of the elves present had a personal stake in the unfolding events. If Yrianath’s bid succeeded, they would be members of the ruling household of Tiranoc, with all of the privilege that entailed. It was in their own interests to see the court’s decision favour their master.
“He gains time,” said Alith, sensing an opportunity. “Have you not noticed that of all the visitors who have requested to see him, only the Naggarothi, Caenthras, has been admitted? Not even Lirian, who is the ward of our lord since the death of her husband, can see Prince Yrianath. I fear that this illness may not be the fault of the prince at all, but some ploy by the Naggarothi envoy.”
There were frowns from some of the elves, but nods from others.
“What have you heard?” demanded the Fire Master, Gilthorian.
Alith held up his hands as if in surrender.
“I know nothing more than I am saying I assure you,” he replied. “Perhaps it is simply idle speculation on my part, for I am still a novice in the ways of politics. Yet it occurs to me that this envoy has Yrianath’s ear by some means, and their meetings are always held in secret. Not even Palthrain attends them, and he supports Yrianath’s claim. I do not know what this means, but it makes me wary.”
The others attempted to question Alith further and then took up his line of reasoning when he declined. It was, they agreed, somewhat suspicious for a Naggarothi prince to arrive in Tor Anroc during the funeral, and Caenthras certainly had unprecedented access to Yrianath. Though no conclusions were drawn, Alith went to his bed that night content that he had stirred up an unwitting force of spies on his behalf. He hoped the rumour would spread to other households and perhaps the nobles themselves, so that they might pay closer attention to Caenthras’ activities.
On the seventh night after the conclusion of the burial ceremonies, at a time when the demands for Yrianath to come to the court were becoming louder and louder, Alith was woken by the thud of booted feet in the corridors above his room.
He dressed quickly and slipped quietly out of his chamber. The palace was in a new tumult and Alith followed the other servants as they made their way towards the main halls. He froze when they came out into the courtyard at the centre of the palace grounds, for stood there were rank upon rank of spearmen and bowmen, several thousand of them. They were not dressed in the white and blue of Tiranoc, but in the black and purple of Nagarythe. Alith immediately ducked back inside, his heart beating.
The Naggarothi princes had arrived, and they had not come alone.