Firuthal nodded but still did not smile.
“Perhaps,” the charioteer said. “My watch finishes at midnight; I shall come to find you at the palace.”
“Be sure that you do,” Carathril said, pulling himself back into his saddle with a jingle of harness.
Firuthal quickly trotted back to his chariot and nimbly leapt aboard. With a word, he urged the horses forwards and guided them past Carathril and Aerenis.
“Go quickly, I will send word to the Phoenix King that you are here,” Firuthal told them as he passed, with a glance over his shoulder towards the rising pinnacle of the palace tower. “He will be eager to hear your messages.”
With a wave, Carathril rode on under the gateway, Aerenis following closely. Beyond, the road split into two and they took the left fork, climbing the hill along its southern slope. The screech of a bird attracted their attention and they looked up to see a hawk racing towards the tower of Tor Anroc: Firuthal’s message. As they rode higher, the plains and meadows were laid out around them, stretching from mountain to coast and ruddy in the swiftly falling twilight. Soon low buildings enclosed the road and they were swallowed up by the outskirts of Tor Anroc.
The clatter of pots and the scent of cooking reminded Carathril that it had been some hours since they had eaten, and he hoped that he could swiftly conclude his business with Bel Shanaar and seek a hostelry.
He noted immediately the quiet and calm of Tiranoc. As they passed under a second gateway, through the curtain wall and into the city proper, he noted the lack of people on the streets. Within the city, the road continued its same swirling ascent, curling tighter and tighter about the hilltop, the buildings growing taller with each loop until they passed over the road itself and the pair found themselves riding through a long, lantern-lit tunnel. For a short while, they rode in twinkling lamplight, the jangling of the horses’ harnesses and the clipping of their hooves echoing from walls occasionally pierced with high, thin windows and narrow doors.
Frescoes broke the monotony of the white walls, painted in vivid colours, showing harvest scenes and chariot races, deer hunts and marketplaces. Alleys and side streets broke the all-enclosing shaft, but these too offered no view of the sky. The city was now carved out of the stone of the mount, every room, window and door fashioned by masons from the heartrock of the hill. Having been raised in the open avenues of Lothern, Carathril felt a little unnerved and he only realised how uncomfortable he had started to feel when they finally exited the tunnelway out onto a broad plaza surrounding the palace.
Tiled with the same red stone as the road, the courtyard stretched for three hundred paces and it was filled with market stalls and crowds. The cries of stall keepers hawking their wares mixed with the hubbub of bargaining and general conversation. Dressed in flowing robes of white and wrapped with cowls, scarves and cloaks dyed in the same vibrant hues as the tunnel paintings, the folk of Tor Anroc weaved between the stalls at leisure, crossing each other’s paths in a slow, complex dance of commerce. In the centre, the tower of the Phoenix King’s palace soared into the darkening skies, golden light glimmering from its narrow windows.
“This way,” Carathril said, pointing to the left. A road was kept clear to the doors of the tower, and here a company of charioteers stood guard, fifty of them arrayed in two lines that flanked the approach to the palace.
None attempted to bar their arrival, and a retainer came forwards to take the reins of their horses as they dismounted outside the palace gate. The high wooden doors opened before them, showing a vaulted entrance hall lit by gold lanterns. At the far end, a marble stairway spiralled out of sight. A deep red carpet stretched along the hallway and up the stair, and Carathril self-consciously lifted up the hem of his cloak, covered as it was with the grime of many days’ travel.
An elf swathed in a flowing robe of blue embroidered in gold with flowing birds came into view, walking swiftly down the stairs.
“Captain Carathril, I am Palthrain, chamberlain to his majesty,” the elf introduced himself with a deferential nod as they met at the bottom of the stairs. His cheeks were sharply angled and his wide eyes dark under a shock of black hair. His movements were measured and precise as he gestured for them to accompany him.
He spoke as he led them swiftly up the steps, his eyes fixed on Carathril’s as he did so.
“His majesty is most keen to hear of events in Lothern,” said Palthrain. “It has been many weeks since we have heard word from Prince Aeltherin, or any of his court, for that matter.”
Carathril hesitated a moment, casting a glance at Aerenis. “Rest assured, captain, that whatever you tell the Phoenix King I shall know immediately,” said Palthrain.
“Our news will not bring any joy, I am afraid,” said the captain.
Palthrain took this with no more reaction than an understanding nod, though his eyes never left Carathril’s.
They passed several landings during their ascent: wide archways leading from the stairs to the hallways and galleries that made up the greater part of the palace. On the fourth level, Palthrain turned them aside and ushered them through the arch into a wide indoor amphitheatre. Wooden benches, empty for the moment, surrounded a central circular floor. At the far end of the hall, in the gap made by the horseshoe of seats, the Phoenix King sat upon a high-backed golden throne; about him stood several other elves of regal disposition.
As they approached, they saw that Bel Shanaar was deep in conversation, his gaze not once straying to the new arrivals. He was dressed in his formal robes of office: layers of white and gold, delicately embroidered with silver swirls and runes. From his shoulders hung a long cloak of white feathers, which draped over the arms of his throne, hemmed with a band of golden thread and sapphires. His face was faintly lined, the only sign of old age any elf endured, and a golden band studded with a single emerald swept back his pale blond hair, showing a forehead creased with a frown. His eyes were bright blue, and he pursed thin lips as he listened intently to the words of his counsellors.
“His majesty, Bel Shanaar, Phoenix King of Ulthuan,” Palthrain whispered reverentially as they crossed the lacquered wooden floor.
He waved his hand gently towards a short, young elf to the Phoenix King’s left, who stood with his arms crossed, his expression one of displeasure.
“Elodhir, son of the Phoenix King, heir to the throne of Tiranoc,” said the chamberlain. The family resemblance was clear.
On the other side stood a tall, broad elf dressed in a long sweep of gilded scale armour, bound with a thick black belt, a sword hanging from his hip.
“Imrik of Caledor, son of Menieth,” Palthrain said. “He is the grandson of that great mage, Caledor Dragontamer.”
“All know of Imrik,” said Carathril, thrilled to see such a legendary warrior in the flesh.
“The third and last of the Phoenix King’s advisors is Thyriol,” said Palthrain. “He is one of the most powerful mage-princes, ruler of Saphery.”
Thyriol’s silver hair hung to his waist in three long tresses bound with strips of black leather. He wore multi-layered robes of white and yellows, which constantly shimmered as he fidgeted from foot to foot.
“Thyriol who presided over the First Council?” asked Aerenis, awe in his voice.
“The same,” said Palthrain. His voice rose in volume. “Captain Carathril of Lothern, your majesty.”
“Thank you, Palthrain,” Bel Shanaar said, still not looking at them.
The chamberlain bowed and left without further word. Carathril and Aerenis were left standing on their own, listening to the discussion.
“We cannot show mercy,” said Imrik with a shake of his head. “The people need our strength.”
“But many of them are victims as much as they are perpetrators,” cautioned Bel Shanaar. “They are brought low by their own terrors, and the priests and priestesses play on their fears and manipulate their woes. I have spoken with some who claim that they did not realise how debased they had become. There is
dark magic in this, some more evil purpose that we have not yet seen.”
“Then we must find their ringleaders and question them,” suggested Elodhir. The prince took a pace towards his father. “We cannot simply allow the cults to spread unchecked. If we should allow that to happen, our armies will be eaten away by this menace, our people consumed by their own desires. No! Though it is perhaps a harsh judgement on some, we must prosecute your rule with firm determination and relentless purpose.”
“That is all well and good, Elodhir, but against whom must we prosecute it?” asked Thyriol. As always, Thyriol’s words were quiet and meaningful.
As he carefully considered his next words, the elf lord ran thin fingers through his silver hair. His deep green eyes fixed on each of his fellows in turn. “We all know its root, yet there is not one of us speaks its name. Nagarythe. There, I have said it and yet the world still turns.”
“Tales and rumour are no basis for policy,” replied Bel Shanaar. “Perhaps our guests bring tidings that will aid our discussions.”
Carathril stood dumbly for a moment, taken aback by his sudden inclusion in the conversation. The Phoenix King and three princes looked at him with inquiring eyes, and the guard captain cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts.
“I bear ill tidings, your majesty,” Carathril said quietly. “I and my companion have ridden hither with all haste to bring you the news that Prince Aeltherin of Lothern is dead.”
A scowl crossed the face of Imrik, while the others present bowed their heads for a moment.
“It is our misfortune that the great prince fell from grace, your majesty,” continued Carathril. “I know not how, but Prince Aeltherin became a member of the pleasure cults. For how long, we do not know. It appears that for some time the prince was in league with the dark priestesses of Atharti, and from his position misdirected our efforts to uncover the plots of the cult. Only a chance happening, a name whispered by a prisoner in her sleep, started us on a sinister path that led to the doors of the prince’s manse itself.”
“And how is it that Prince Aeltherin does not stand here to defend himself against these accusations?” asked Elodhir. “Why is he not in your custody?”
“He took his own life, highness,” explained Carathril. “I endeavoured to reason with him, implored the prince to put his case before this court, but he was gripped with a madness and would not consent. I know not what caused him to act in this way, and I would not dare to speculate.”
“A ruling prince party to these covens of evil?” muttered Thyriol, turning to the Phoenix King. “Matters are even graver than we would have dared admit. When news of Aeltherin’s fall spreads, fear and suspicion will follow.”
“As is the intent of the architects of this darkness, I have no doubt,” said Bel-Shanaar. “With the rulers of the realms no longer to be trusted, to whom will our citizens turn? When they cannot trust those with authority, the greater the dread upon the minds of our people, and the more they will flock to the cults.”
“And who shall we trust, if not our own?” asked Imrik, his demeanour dark.
“The defection of Prince Aeltherin casts a cloud over every prince,” said Bel Shanaar with a sorrowful shake of his head. “If we are to lead the people from the temptations of the cults, we must be united. Yet how can we act together when the doubt remains that those in whom we confide may well be working against our interests?”
“To allow ourselves to be divided would bring about a terrible age of anarchy,” warned Thyriol, who had begun to pace back and forth beside the king’s throne. “The rule of the realms is fragile, and the greatest of our leaders are beyond these shores in the colonies across the ocean.”
“The greatest of our leaders sits upon this throne,” said Elodhir, his eyes narrowing.
“I spoke not of one individual,” said Thyriol, raising a placating hand. “Yet I would wish it that Prince Malekith were here, if only to settle the matter of his people in Nagarythe. In his absence we are reluctant to prosecute investigations within his realm.”
“Well, Malekith is not here, while we are,” said Bel Shanaar sharply. He paused for a moment, passing a hand across his forehead. “It matters not. Thyriol, what is the counsel of the mages of Saphery?”
The mage-prince ceased his pacing and turned on his heel to face the Phoenix King. He folded his arms, which disappeared within the sleeves of his voluminous robe, and pursed his lips as if in thought.
“You were correct to speak of dark magic, your majesty,” Thyriol said. “Our divinations sense a growing weight of evil energy gathering in the vortex. It pools within the Annulii Mountains, drawn here by the practices of the cults. Sacrifice of an unnatural kind is feeding the ill winds. Whether it is the purpose of the cults or simply an unintended result of their ceremonies, we cannot say. This magic is powerful but dangerous, and no mage will wield it.”
“There is no means by which this dark magic can be spent safely?” asked Imrik.
“The vortex dissipates some of its power, and would cleanse the winds in due course were the dark magic not fuelled further,” explained Thyriol. “Unfortunately, there is nothing we can do to hasten this, other than to stop the cults practising their sorcery.”
“And so we return again to our main question,” sighed Bel Shanaar. “How might we rid ourselves of these cults?”
“Firm action,” growled Imrik. “Muster the princes; send out the call to arms. Sweep away this infestation with blade and bow.”
“What you suggest threatens civil war,” Thyriol cautioned.
“To stand idle threatens equal destruction,” said Elodhir.
“And would you lead this army, Imrik?” Bel Shanaar asked, turning in his throne to stare intently at the Caledorian prince.
“I would not,” Imrik replied sharply. “Caledor yet remains free of this taint, and I seek to maintain the peace that we have.”
“Saphery has no generals of renown,” said Thyriol with a shrug. “I think that you will find the other realms reluctant to risk open war.”
“Then who shall lead the hunt?” pleaded Elodhir, his exasperation clear in his voice.
“Captain Carathril,” said Bel Shanaar. Carathril started, surprised that his presence was still remembered. He had assumed the princes had heard all that they needed, and had been waiting for leave to be excused.
“How might I be of service, your majesty?” Carathril asked.
“I dispense with your duties to the Guard of Lothern,” said Bel Shanaar, standing up. “You are loyal and trustworthy, devoted to our people and the continuance of peace and just rule. From this moment, I appoint you as my herald, the mouth of the Phoenix King. You will take word to the princes of the realms. I will ask if there is one amongst them who is willing to prosecute the destruction of these intolerable cults. This peril that besets us is no less than the division of our people and the destruction of our civilisation. We must stand strong, and proud, and drive out these faithless practitioners of deceit. The gratitude of our lands and this office will be heaped upon the prince that delivers us from this darkness.”
—
A Bold Oath
Carathril felt wearier than he had ever felt before in his long years. For eighty days since becoming the herald of the Phoenix King, he had ridden across the length and breadth of Ulthuan. He had crossed back and forth over the Annulii Mountains; south to the mountains and hills of Caledor where the Dragonriders lived in tall castles amidst the mountain peaks; north to Chrace, where the warriors wore the pelts of fierce white lions hunted by their own hands.
Carathril had crossed the Sea of Dusk and the Sea of Dreams to Saphery, where mages ruled and the fields were tilled by enchanted ploughs and lanterns of ghostfire glittered in the towns. He had taken ship to Avelorn, the beautiful forests of the Everqueen, though he had not met the ceremonial wife of the Phoenix King on his visits, only her stern guard of handmaidens and the priestesses of Isha. In Yvresse, he had sailed amongst the east
ern islands and camped under the wooded boughs of the Athel Yvrain. He had become accustomed to the long rides and nights spent under the stars or in strange beds, driven on by his duty to the Phoenix King.
He had borne the tidings of Bel Shanaar to the princes, and as winter closed her chill grip upon the Outer Kingdoms, Carathril had reluctantly returned with their replies: none was willing to lead the soldiery of Ulthuan against the pleasure cults.
Now he rested, as he had done for the past seven days, sitting upon one of the benches in the audience chamber of the palace, lulled half-asleep by the droning of the princes’ voices below. For weeks they had arrived and left, seeking counsel from Bel Shanaar and each other, bringing tidings, mostly grim, of events across the realms of Ulthuan.
As far as Carathril could tell, the conflict with the cults of pleasure and excess was growing in intensity. From his own experience in Lothern he knew that it seemed that another sect would emerge even as one was destroyed. It was becoming evident that for some time now, many years likely, the cults had been prospering outside of the cities and large towns. Distant farms and isolated hunting lodges had become meeting places for those drawn to the forbidden rituals of these cults, and here thriving communities had established themselves. Cult members had spread far and wide, and there was no telling how many figures of authority, how many nobles and commanders were now in their grip. Carathril had wanted to believe that the insurgence of dark practices and loathsome ceremonies had been halted, but each revelation dashed his hopes a little further.
The fundamental problem was that each kingdom was confident in its own abilities to combat the emerging fanaticism of the cults, but was suspicious of its neighbours. Even though united under the rule of the Phoenix King, each realm was a sovereign territory of its princes, ruled over in the Phoenix King’s name.
The princes had a great amount for which to be worried, and each had a vested interest in protecting the fortunes of his kingdom, for all the ruling families were powerful, militarily, politically and economically. They were descended from the bravest and strongest of Aenarion’s captains, who had wielded the magical weapons of Caledor Dragontamer against the daemon hosts. They had a bloodright to rule their lands, and each jealously guarded his domains with the ferocity of a she-lion protecting her young.
[Sundering 01] - Malekith Page 21
