—<SEVENTEEN>—

A Bitter Fate

 

 

With Aneltain as escort, Alith rode into the Caledorian camp. He had already met with Tharion and learned that over four hundred of his warriors had fallen in battle and more than twice that number were badly wounded. The arrival of the Caledorians had turned the balance, but the druchii had fought on fiercely, breaking only as the sun dipped towards dusk. The army of Anlec had fled back towards the pass, pursued by the vengeful reaver knights and the dragon princes.

There was an air of celebration in the encampment. Fires burned and songs and laughter drifted between the red and white tents. The pavilion of the dragon princes rose high above the rest of the camp, its roof held up by three mighty poles, flags of Caledor streaming from their tips.

Warriors came to take their horses as they dismounted outside the open flaps of the huge tent. Entering, Alith found himself in a swirl of elves; Caledorian and Ellyrian.

The conversation was animated, eyes were bright and faces flushed with victory and wine. The four dragon princes were holding court at the centre of the pavilion, still bedecked in their blood-spattered armour. With them stood Athielle and Finudel, smiles upon their faces.

All turned at Alith’s approach, but it was Athielle’s reaction that he noticed. Her expression grew sombre and she stepped away, placing her brother between her and Alith. Before Alith could speak one of the Caledorians interrupted, his voice deep, his tone unwelcoming.

“What do we have here?” said the prince, his deep blue eyes gauging Alith coolly.

“I am Alith Anar, prince of Nagarythe.”

“A Naggarothi?” replied the Caledorian with a dubious eyebrow raised, recoiling slightly from Alith’s presence.

“He is our ally, Dorien,” said Finudel. “Were it not for Alith’s actions I fear your arrival would have found us already dead.”

The Caledorian prince regarded Alith with contempt, head cocked to one side. Alith returned the look with equal disgust.

“Alith, this is Prince Dorien,” said Finudel, breaking the awkward silence that had rippled out through the nearby elves. “He is the younger brother of King Caledor.”

Alith did not react to this, meeting Dorien’s stare.

“What of Elthyrior?” Athielle asked, stepping past her brother. Alith broke his gaze from Dorien to look at her. “Where is he?”

“I do not know,” Alith replied with a shake of the head. “He is where Morai-heg leads him. The raven heralds took their dead and vanished into Athelian Toryr. You may never see him again.”

“Anar?” said one of the other Caledorians. “I have heard this name, from prisoners we took at Lothern.”

“And what did they say?” asked Alith.

“That the Anars marched beside Malekith and resisted Morathi,” replied the prince. He extended a hand. “I am Thyrinor, and I welcome you to our camp, even if my intemperate cousin will not.”

Alith shook the proffered hand quickly. Dorien snorted and turned away, calling for more wine. As he marched off through the crowd, Alith saw that the prince walked with a limp.

“He is in a grumpy mood,” said Thyrinor. “I think he has broken his leg, but he refuses to allow the healers to look at it. He’s still full of fire and blood after the battle. Tomorrow he will be calmer.”

“We are grateful for your aid,” said Athielle. “Your arrival is more than we could have hoped for.”

“We were brought word of the druchii marching along the pass four days ago and set out immediately,” said Thyrinor. “I regret that we cannot stay here, for we are needed in Chrace. The enemy have all but overrun the mountains and the king sails with his army to thwart them at the border with Cothique. Tomorrow we continue north and then through Avelorn to strike at the druchii from the south. Today is an important victory, and Caledor recognises the sacrifices made by the people of Ellyrion.”

Alith suppressed a snort of derision, turning away to hide his expression of disgust. What did these folk know of sacrifice?

“Alith?” said Athielle, and he felt the princess at his shoulder. He turned back to her.

“I am sorry,” said Alith. “I cannot share your enthusiasm for today’s victory.”

“I would think you happy that Kheranion is dead,” said Finudel, joining his sister. “Is that not some measure of payment for your father?”

“No,” Alith said quietly. “Kheranion died swiftly.”

Athielle and Finudel fell silent, shocked by Alith’s words. Thyrinor stepped up beside Finudel, proffering a goblet towards Alith. The Naggarothi prince took it reluctantly.

“Victories have been few for us,” said the Caledorian. He raised his own glass in toast to Alith. “I give you my thanks for your efforts and those of your warriors. Were the king here, I am sure he would offer you the same.”

“I do not fight for your praise,” said Alith.

“Then what do you fight for?” asked Thyrinor.

Alith did not reply immediately, aware of the coldness that gripped his heart and the warmth of Athielle so close at hand. He looked at the princess, gaining a small amount of comfort from the sight.

“Forgive me,” Alith said, forcing a slight smile. “I am weary. Wearier than you can possibly imagine. Ellyrion and Caledor battle for their freedom and I should not judge you for matters that are not your responsibility.”

Alith took a mouthful of the wine within. It was dry, almost tasteless, but he feigned a nod of appreciation. He raised the goblet beside Thyrinor’s and fixed his gaze upon the Caledorian.

“May you win all of your battles and end this war!” Alith declared. His eyes flickered to Athielle to gauge her reaction, but her expression was unreadable, her brow slightly furrowed, lips pursed.

“We should not impose upon you any longer,” said Finudel, guiding Athielle away with a touch on her arm. She gave a last glance at Alith before being steered into the crowd of Caledorian nobles.

Alith returned his stare to Thyrinor.

“Will you fight to the last, against all hope?” Alith asked. “Will your king give his life to free Ulthuan?”

“He will,” replied Thyrinor. “You think that you alone have reason enough to fight the druchii? You are wrong, so very wrong.”

The prince left Alith with his thoughts, calling his cousin’s name. Alith stood motionless for a while, staring into his cup. The red wine reminded him of blood, its taste still bitter upon his tongue. He wanted to let the goblet drop from his fingers and leave, to put as much distance as he could between himself and these nobles of Ellyrion and Caledor. They fought the druchii, and they spoke fine words against them, but they did not understand. None of them truly knew what they fought against.

As he looked at the elves within the tent, hiding his disdain, Alith spied a familiar face: Carathril. The herald was stood somewhat apart from the crowd, his expression one of discomfort. Carathril met Alith’s gaze and waved him over.

“You are the last person I expected to see here,” said Alith as Carathril gestured to a bench and sat down. Alith stayed on his feet.

“It seems I am destined to serve another king as herald,” Carathril replied heavily.

“And is he a king you serve gladly?”

Carathril considered this, his expression pensive.

“He is a leader of action and not words,” the herald said. “As the commander of our armies, I would wish for no other.”

“And when the war is over?”

“That is not yet our concern,” said Carathril. “It would be unwise to worry about a future so uncertain. You would do well, Alith, to align yourself with Caledor. He has strength, and determination in abundance. With his aid, your lands in Nagarythe can be restored.”

“I have learnt well the harsh lessons of the last few years,” said Alith. “A ruler can no more reign through the power of others than a cloud can move against the wind. We looked to Malekith and he could do nothing to halt the doom of the Anars. We turned to Bel Shanaar and he failed us. I have no more time for kings.”

“Surely you would not fight against Caledor?” Carathril said with genuine horror.

“In truth? I cannot say,” Alith said with a shrug. “The future of Nagarythe is my only concern; let your king and his princes do what they will. I am the last loyal prince of Nagarythe and I will restore the rule of the righteous to my realm. Caledor has no sway over the Naggarothi, only from their own can they be led.”

 

While Dorien led his Caledorians northwards, Alith chose to stay in Ellyrion. His army had suffered much and even he could see that they were in no position to wage further war for the time being. With Finudel and Athielle’s permission, the Naggarothi built a camp on the plains not far from Tor Elyr and spent the winter recovering their strength.

The conversation with Carathril had unsettled Alith and raised many questions he did not yet know how to answer. Where would he fight, and for what cause?

He certainly could not bow his knee to a Caledorian, for all that others spoke highly of the new Phoenix King. The rivalry between Nagarythe and Caledor was ingrained, an unconscious suspicion of the southerners. The debacle with Bel Shanaar had proven to Alith that the title of Phoenix King was worthless; he could no more fight for a foreigner’s crown than he could give his life for a blade of grass or the leaf of a tree.

Alith cared little for the fate of the Tiranocii, when he even spared a thought for them. They had sown the seeds of their own doom; the weakness of their leaders had brought about the occupation. While Bel Shanaar had reigned, Tiranoc had revelled in its status, its princes and nobles growing powerful and rich from their positions. Bel Shanaar was dead and now they looked to the east and south, to a Phoenix King from Caledor to save them. Tiranoc’s fall of fortune was not lost on Alith, but he had no sympathy for the kingdom.

Ellyrion was a different matter. The Ellyrians had fought the druchii, and suffered the consequences of their opposition with the death of thousands. Alith also had enough self-awareness to recognise that his regard for Ellyrion was also due in part to his feelings for Athielle. But Ellyrion was not his home. He felt uncomfortable on the wide plains, exposed beneath the blue sky.

While the wounded healed and Tharion set about the reorganisation of the Anar regiments, Alith brooded alone, often riding out to the Annulii to walk in the foothills and contemplate his fate. He hoped that he would meet Elthyrior, but the raven herald remained unseen.

Pathless and lost, Alith taunted himself with memories of Elanardris in flames, of his father’s death and the torments his grandfather undoubtedly suffered in the dungeons beneath Anlec. No course of action he conceived brought comfort to Alith; no destiny he could lay out for himself brought the answers he sought.

As summer, hot and beautiful, fell upon Ellyrion, Alith’s mood changed. The shining sun and the verdant grassland turned his thoughts to Athielle, and he felt a deep longing to see her again, to know how she fared. Just as he had doubted himself that moment in the gardens with Milandith, Alith wondered if it was weakness to indulge the feelings he had for the princess.

 

It was with a mixture of reluctance and excitement that he rode to the capital alone, having sent word to Athielle and Finudel that he wished to discuss the progress of the war. In truth the wider war was irrelevant to Alith. Neither side had won any great victory nor suffered any terrible loss. Only two battles had been fought since the engagement on the Ellyrion plain, both on the borders of druchii-assaulted Chrace. For the moment it seemed that both sides were content to maintain their current positions, building their strength further.

Alith was greeted with little ceremony, as he had requested in his letter. Retainers of Finudel met him at the edge of Tor Elyr and rode with him in silence to the central palaces. A small delegation led by Aneltain waited for the Anar lord in the amphitheatre and took him to a circular hallway in the north of the palace.

Finudel sat alone to one side of the hall, which was lined with curving benches in readiness for audience. High windows allowed the sun to stream down in shafts, casting rainbows upon the white floor. Reaver pennants hung between the windows, tattered and stained, honouring those that had given their lives in the war. Alith could not count their number; there were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands even, each marking the death of a brave knight.

Finudel looked up with a smile as the small group approached. He wore a light robe of white decorated with intricately flowing lines of blue and gold thread that made Alith think of the rising sun shining on waves. Finudel stood and nodded in greeting.

“Welcome, Alith,” said the prince. “I hope that you are in good health.”

“I am,” replied Alith. He looked around the room, confused. “Where is Athielle?”

Finudel’s smile faded and he gestured for Aneltain and the others to leave. When they had gone, he motioned for Alith to sit on the bench opposite him. Alith did so, a frown creasing his brow.

“The princess? I wished to speak with you both.”

“I do not think that is wise,” said Finudel.

“Oh?”

Finudel looked out of the nearest window for a moment, gaze distant, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. When he looked back at Alith his jaw was sternly set but there was sympathy in his eyes.

“I know that it is my sister that you really come to see,” said the Ellyrian prince, measuring every word, eyes searching Alith’s face for reaction. “I have seen the way that you look at her, and I am surprised you have kept yourself from Tor Elyr for so long.”

“My duties as a—” began Alith but Finudel cut him off.

“You deny yourself on purpose,” said Finudel. “You think of your feelings for Athielle as a weakness, a distraction. You have doubts, about yourself and about her. That is natural.”

“I’m sure th—”

“Let me finish!” Finudel’s tone was abrupt but softly spoken. He lifted a finger to emphasise his point. “Athielle is quite taken with you as well, Alith.”

Alith felt a flutter in his chest as he heard these words, the stirrings of a long-dead feeling: hope.

“She will not say what occupies her thoughts, even to me, but it is plain that she wishes to see you again,” Finudel continued. “No doubt she has some foolish notion that the two of you might have some kind of future together.”

“Why are such thoughts foolish?” said Alith.

“Because you are not a good match for her,” said Finudel, his expression apologetic but certain.

“I am a prince of Ulthuan, let me remind you,” said Alith hotly. “Though my lands have been taken away, one day I will restore Elanardris to its former glory. There is not a prince on the isle who has not suffered some misfortune and waning of circumstance in this war.”

Finudel shook his head, disappointed.

“I do not speak of title or lands or power, Alith,” he said. “It is you that is not a match for my sister. What would you offer her? Would you take her to Nagarythe, a bleak and cold land, and ask her to leave her people and join yours? Would you be content to allow her to stay here in Tor Elyr while you pursue this vengeful course you have taken? Allow her to drift about this palace, pining for your return, uncertain whether you lived or died?”

Alith opened his mouth to rebut the accusations, but Finudel continued.

“I am not finished! There is another course that you could follow. Athielle obviously cares nothing for your loss of power, or your lack of lands and subjects. It is you that enamours her. I cannot fathom her thoughts sometimes. Perhaps it is because the two of you are as night and day that you feel drawn together. Who can understand the twisted paths our hearts follow? If you feel as I think you do, you must ask yourself what you are prepared to sacrifice for her.”

“I would give my life for your sister,” said Alith, surprising himself, though Finudel merely shook his head.

“No, you would give your death for her, and that is not the same thing,” said the prince. “Would you renounce any claims to your title in Nagarythe, and live here in Ellyrion? You cling to your revenge like a child clings to its mother, seeking some meaning from its emptiness. Would you resolve to banish the dark memories that haunt you, which drive you to seek the deaths of your enemies? Could you do such things even if you desired it?”

“I cannot change who I am,” said Alith.

“Cannot or will not?”

Alith stood and paced away, frustrated by Finudel’s words.

“What right have you to make such demands?” Alith demanded.

“I do not make these demands for myself, but for my sister,” Finudel replied calmly. “Do not tell me that you have not asked these questions of yourself. Surely you are not so obsessed with this bloody quest of yours that you thought Athielle would merely fit her future around yours?”

Alith growled, but his anger was not for Finudel, it was for himself. The prince’s words, his doubts, gave voice to a lingering dread that had existed within Alith since he had first seen Athielle.

“You present me with a choice I cannot make,” said Alith. “At least not here, not now.”

“It is a choice you have already made,” said Finudel. “You simply need to recognise which way your heart has cast its vote. I have a suite of rooms already prepared for you, you can stay here as long as you wish provided that you do not try to contact or see Athielle. It would be a cruelty to stir her hopes if you do not intend to live up to them.”

“Thank you for the hospitality, but I do not think I can remain so close to Athielle without seeing her,” said Alith. “Should I wish to meet her, I have the means to do so despite your precautions and guards. I do not want to go against your wishes, but I do not trust myself to leave her alone, so I will not stay.”

Alith quit the hall and found Aneltain waiting outside. The Ellyrian, normally talkative and inquisitive, remained quiet as he saw Alith’s troubled look. He called for Alith’s horse to be brought from the stables and they waited in silence.

Mounting his steed, Alith turned back towards Aneltain and extended a hand in farewell. The Ellyrian gripped it firmly and patted Alith on the arm.

“I feel that I will not see you again for some time, Alith, if at all,” said Aneltain.

“You may be right,” said Alith. “Take care of the prince and princess, and of yourself. Though I cannot claim to be your friend, I wish you every fortune in the dark times ahead. Stay strong, and as you enjoy the sun and the light, think of us that must dwell in the darkness. I must go. The shadows beckon me.”

Alith rode away without another glance back, at Aneltain or the palace where Athielle remained. Did she perhaps look out of a window high on a tower and see him leave? Did she stand at a doorway, watching him go, perhaps not realising that he had no intention of returning?

Probably not, Alith told himself with a bitter chuckle. It had been a fantasy, a sliver of a dream that had brought him here, but Finudel had been absolutely right. He could not leave the shadows while the druchii remained, and he would not drag Athielle down into the darkness. Love was simply not part of Alith’s future.

Only emptiness remained.