[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  “Don’t be foolish, boy, of course there is.”

  “Where?”

  Anurion stared at him as though he had asked the most idiotic question imaginable, and Caelir braced himself for an explosion of temper from the archmage.

  Instead, the mage pursed his lips and brought a hand to his own forehead as though he could not believe his own thoughtlessness.

  “Of course… you are not a mage, nor are you seeking to become a Sword Master.”

  “No,” said Caelir, “I just want answers.”

  “Indeed you do, boy,” said Anurion, positioning him before the base of the tower. “In that case you will need to make your own way in.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Those who come as supplicants must make their own door,” said Anurion. “Simply speak your purpose in coming here. The tower will judge the truth of your words and thus your worthiness to enter.”

  Feeling slightly foolish, Caelir squared his shoulders and faced the carved face of the tower. He was no orator, so opted for the plain, unvarnished truth.

  “My name is Caelir and I come to the Tower of Hoeth to seek answers.”

  No door was forthcoming and the wall remained solid before him.

  “Be more specific, silly,” advised Kyrielle.

  “I’m talking to a wall,” said Caelir. “It’s hard to think of what would convince it to let me pass through.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes, thinking back to all he had learned in his time with Anurion and Kyrielle: the truth of his name, the dagger that could not be drawn, the threat to Ellyrion from the druchii and the black gaps in his memory he hoped Teclis could restore.

  Satisfied he knew what he would say, he opened his eyes to see the wall rippling like the surface of a bowl of milk, the magic bound in its creation now fluid and malleable. As he watched, the stone of the tower faded to form a golden portal ringed with silver symbols cut directly into the rock.

  “Well done, boy,” said Anurion, striding confidently through the opening and into what looked to be a great, vaulted chamber devoid of furnishings and occupants.

  “But I didn’t say anything,” said Caelir.

  “You think in a place like this you need words?” smiled Kyrielle as she followed her father into the tower.

  “Apparently not,” he said.

  “Well, come on then,” said Kyrielle, beckoning him inside.

  “Do we just leave the horses here?”

  “Of course,” said Kyrielle, pointing over his shoulder.

  A handsome Sword Master emerged from the trees and bowed to the three mounts before whispering unheard words and beckoning them to join him in the forest. Their mounts followed the warrior and Caelir smiled as he recognised the skills of one born in Ellyrion.

  Satisfied the horses would be well-cared for, he turned and made his way within the tower in case the door vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

  As he stepped through the portal, he felt a sudden shift, as though a magical current had been passed through his body. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was unexpected. He pulled up short and spun on the spot to see what had happened.

  The door behind him had vanished and in its place was one of the many arched openings formed in the face of the tower. Caelir’s breath caught in his throat as he looked through the opening and saw the land of Saphery spread out before him like a relief map, its landscape and rivers rendered miniscule by height.

  Thousands of feet below him, Caelir saw the forest the tower had been built within and the edges of the black rock it stood upon.

  With one step he had travelled the entire height of the tower and he backed away from the precipitous drop as a voice said, “Welcome, Caelir of Ellyrion.”

  He turned to see Anurion and Kyrielle beside a slightly built elf in the vestments of a Loremaster. A cerulean cloak edged in gold anthemion hung from his narrow shoulders and thin strands of dark hair spilled from beneath a golden helmet with a sculpted crescent moon upon it. A sheathed longsword hung at his waist, looking incongruous as part of the apparel of a mage, and he held a golden staff topped with an image of the goddess, Lileath in the other hand…

  Caelir realised who he now stood before and dropped to his knees in awe.

  He had seen magnificently lifelike paintings of Teclis and his twin brother, Prince Tyrion, before—who of the Asur had not?—but none of them had come close to capturing the intensity of the Loremaster’s stare. His sallow features were caustic and dark, his eyes hooded and heavy with the burden of ancient knowledge. His prudent gaze reminded Caelir of Eltharion, and he wondered if all great heroes were cursed with such pain.

  But where Prince Tyrion was said to be robust, warlike and gregarious, Teclis was his dark mirror, cursed since birth with frailty that could only be kept at bay with potions and the power of the staff he bore. Where Tyrion was a warrior of epic renown, no greater mage than Teclis had ever been named Loremaster and his incredible powers were as legendary as the martial skill of his brother.

  Together, they were the greatest living heroes of the Asur, for they had defeated the most terrible invasion of Ulthuan since the time of Chaos and Aenarion.

  And now he was Caelir’s only hope.

  “My lord Teclis,” he said. “I need your help.”

  The breath was stolen from Eldain’s lungs as he saw the palatial castle in the sky, its white walls and tapering towers built upon an island of pink stone that drifted against the wind like a rebellious cloud. Sunlight sparkled upon speartips and helmets, and Eldain watched as a warrior leaned over the parapet and waved to him. The sheer ordinariness of the gesture flew in the face of the incredible strangeness of the moment.

  “There’s a castle…” he said, pointing into the sky.

  Rhianna waved back at the warrior on the castle walls and said, “Yes. That is the mansion of Hothar the Fey. He is a good friend to my father, though he can be a little… eccentric.”

  “Eccentric? He lives in a floating palace,” said Eldain, aware that he sounded like a rustic woodsman from Chrace, but not caring.

  “Yes, but it’s not the strangest dwelling in Saphery,” pointed out Yvraine.

  “It’s not?”

  “No,” said Yvraine and Eldain could sense the amusement of his female companions. “The Loremasters say that when Ulvenian Minaith returned from Athel Loren he raised a magical villa of the seasons to remind him of the forest kingdom.”

  “A villa of the seasons? What does that mean?”

  “I have never seen it, but it is said that every so often it consumes itself and reforms from the essence of one of the seasons.”

  “Really?” said Eldain, unsure whether or not he was being teased.

  “Yes, but I don’t think the Loremasters approved.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think they thought it a waste of power to create something of such rustic appearance. I once heard the Loremaster say that Ulvenian had merged his power with that of the spellsingers of Athel Loren to create his palace.”

  “So what does it look like?” asked Eldain, keeping his eyes fixed on the castle above him.

  “Sometimes it appears on the coast as a huge palace shaped from drifts of snow and pillars of ice,” said Rhianna. “Other times it might be formed entirely of autumn leaves and once I heard it manifested as corn sheaves and beams of sunlight as solid as marble.”

  Though it sounded ridiculous, Eldain could well believe his wife’s words having now seen this castle of stone and glass floating in the air and enveloping him in its cold shadow.

  The base of the great castle was easily twice as large as Ellyr-Charoi, though Eldain guessed that without the constraints of the natural topography, it could be as large as its owner’s magical power could support.

  He watched as the aerial villa altered course and began to slide away from the Tower of Hoeth, drifting without urgency or apparent purpose. Guided as it was by the whims of a mage whose epithet was “the Fey”, he doubted there
was any purpose to its course.

  As incredible as the floating castle was, it was simply another of the many wonders Saphery had to offer. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes from the domain of Hothar the Fey and concentrated on riding towards the Tower of Hoeth.

  Now that they were closer and the veiling illusions had been stripped away, Eldain could see the tower perched upon a great black rock that reared up from a sprawling forest. The trees were filled with white birds and Eldain felt a growing sense of anticipation at the thought of experiencing a measure of the wonders the Tower of Hoeth had to offer.

  “How long until we reach the tower?” said Rhianna.

  “Not long,” said Yvraine.

  “You are looking forward to returning.”

  Yvraine nodded. “It pains me to be away. I lived and trained here for years. It is my home.”

  Eldain sensed the quiet regret in her voice and said, “Will you be able to stay long?”

  “If it is the will of the Loremaster, but I do not think it likely.”

  “Then where will you go next?”

  “Wherever the Loremasters bid me,” said Yvraine and would be drawn no more.

  No more was said, and Eldain, Rhianna and Yvraine entered the forest of the tower, each relishing the prospect of their arrival for different reasons, but all unaware that a unique destiny awaited them.

  A destiny that would bind their lives to the doom or salvation of Ulthuan.

  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’ 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’ 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’ 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’ 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’ 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.