The sundering, p.24
The Sundering, page 24
Carathril and Aerenis rode down the winding path of the pass, their horses delicately picking their way along a narrow path of grey cobbles as the valley narrowed into a defile no more than a stone’s throw wide. The light of the morning sun had not yet breached the canyon tops, and they plunged into cool shadow.
Above them, the air danced and shimmered and a faint magical aurora played about the barely visible mountain peaks. Occasionally the distant silhouette of an eagle would pass overhead. The rock here was pale and broken, and tumbles of scree and pebbles littered the crevasse floor, so that the two elves were forced to ride slowly, their steeds picking their way carefully between the patches of debris. Scattered whitethistle bushes clung to life under rocky overhangs, the last few brilliant blooms still opening their petals, the first deep red berries bursting into colour on slender, thorned stems. Here and there thin trickles of meltwater from the higher slopes meandered across the path.
Silence descended, broken only by the occasional sighing of the wind across the rocks. They rode on without word for some time, each elf alone with his thoughts. To Carathril’s familiar eye, Aerenis seemed distant, perturbed. He rode with a tenseness the guard captain had not seen before.
‘Dark thoughts?’ Carathril asked, reining his steed across the path to ride alongside his lieutenant. ‘The events at the prince’s manse disturb you.’
‘They do,’ admitted Aerenis.
‘I am sorry we could not save them all,’ Carathril said, guessing his companion’s guilt.
‘It is more than that,’ Aerenis replied. ‘Before you pulled me back, I recognised a face I knew. A friend of my sister, Glarionelle, she was there.’
‘The flames were too strong; you could not have rescued her.’ Carathril said, leaning across to place a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.
‘That I know,’ Aerenis said with a nod. He turned his face skywards and spoke as if to himself. ‘Though it grieves me it is not the cause of my pain. Why was she there at all? She always seemed so full of life when I saw her. Her laughter came fast and lasted long. What drove her to seek the solace of the forbidden gods?’
Aerenis closed his eyes for a moment and then turned his gaze on Carathril, his dark blue eyes moist with tears.
‘How could someone so fair have fallen to such depths?’
Carathril did not reply immediately, but thought for a moment, choosing his words. There was little comfort he could offer Aerenis, for he could not begin to understand his suffering. Carathril was the last of his family, his forefathers had died fighting the daemons and he was without wife or heir. Since the fall of Aenarion only duty and discipline had filled his heart.
‘I do not know,’ he said, removing his hand and brushing a lock of silver hair from his face. ‘Perhaps it was curiosity that lured her, and then passion that kept her snared. I have heard tales, no more than rumours, that not all go to such gatherings willingly. Some are fooled by the coven leaders, others forcibly taken from their homes, drugged and abducted. Those who might have the answers you seek are now dead, for good or ill. Find solace in the fact that we saved some, even if we could not save them all.’
‘You are a strong leader and a wise counsellor,’ said Aerenis with a rueful smile, meeting Carathril’s gaze. A sombre expression replaced the smile and Aerenis glanced away. ‘Perhaps it should have been you and not Aeltherin who was prince.’
Carathril laughed with genuine amusement and Aerenis shot him a shocked glance.
‘What do you find so amusing?’ demanded Aerenis with a frown.
‘The blood of princes does not run in my veins,’ Carathril explained. ‘My father and grandfather did not draw weapons alongside Aenarion, they were not warrior-princes fit to rule these lands. For all my station, for all my swordcraft and authority, I am content to be a servant, for I am the son of farmers, not fighters. While Aenarion and the princes fought, my family sheltered behind their blades, thankful for the protection of their betters. They were slain in fields of corn, not upon fields of blood. I do not feel ashamed, for no matter how mighty a prince becomes, he still needs water to drink and bread to eat. I believe that life and destiny finds a place for us all, and that is a comfort to me.’
‘Well, let us hope life has beds for us in Tor Anroc this night!’ joked Aerenis, eager to lighten the mood.
Carathril gave his lieutenant a playful shove.
‘And one of those golden-haired Tiranoc maidens to warm it for you, no doubt!’
Their laughter echoed along the defile, sending a flock of birds darting into the darkening skies.
The autumnal sun was low on the horizon as Carathril and Aerenis rode through the long grass of Tiranoc. Their descent from Eagle Pass had been swift and they had made good time over the last two days. Once out of the mountains they had allowed their horses full rein and galloped swiftly over the many miles, glad to be lost in a blur of meadows and woodlands.
In Tiranoc, as in all of the Outer Kingdoms, the weather was colder than that of the inner realms, being more exposed to the sea winds than those lands within the circle of the Annulii. Still, the sun had been warm enough to make the ride pleasant for Aerenis and Carathril, and in each other’s company they had passed many miles in constant yet trivial conversation.
Ahead, no more than two leagues distant, the city of Tor Anroc rose from upon a white-stoned hill, bathed in the setting sun. About the foothills of the mount clustered white buildings roofed with red tiles, nestled amongst freshly tilled fields, and thin smoke drifted from the farm chimneys. Orange and pink in the dusk light, the foundations of Tor Anroc towered above the plain, and two great roads curved away to the left and right, spiralling around the hilltop to the summit.
From high walls, the blue and yellow flags of Tiranoc hung limply on their banner poles, barely stirred by the still evening air. Towers and citadels carved from the white rock broke above the curving crenellations of the curtain wall, but these in turn were dwarfed by a central spire that pierced the twilight like a shining needle.
Heartened by the closeness of their destination, Carathril and Aerenis guided their steeds into a gentle trot and forged through the wild meadows; before long they came upon a roadway, flagged with hexagonal red tiles, which cut straight as an arrow towards the city.
Ahead lay walled orchards, where rows of apple and cherry trees clung stubbornly to their golden and red leaves. The harvest had passed and the fields were quiet, peacefully descending into their winter sleep behind hedges of callow flower and kingwood. They had left behind the livestock pastures in the foothills, where shepherds and goatherds had been moving their flocks down from the higher slopes. Soon the droving would begin and the herds would be brought to the markets of the towns surrounding Tor Anroc, and eventually to the capital itself.
The proximity of the city changed the landscape, just as a great tree might dominate a patch of woods or an island break the flow of a river. Here the farms were protected by high walls of white stone, and stood along the road behind gates of silver and gold.
Further back, away from the turnpike and reached only by meandering trails across the fields, stood tall mansions with many-roofed halls and slender towers. Here the nobles of Tiranoc lived in the summer, away from the city. Now only a handful trailed grey smoke from their chimneys; most of Tiranoc’s princes had retired back to their city homes to the warmth of open fires, the excitement of winter balls and the intrigue of court life in Tor Anroc. Their horses’ hooves clattering on the road, the riders made good speed and the sun was still loitering in the western sky as they rode into the shadow of the high rock of the city.
A great gatehouse barred the road, a bastion upon a wall twice the height of an elf that arched backwards into the mount itself, all carved from the naked rock. Two pale towers flanked the roadway, devoid of openings except for high arrow slits that looked upon every approach. On each of the flat tower tops stood a bolt thrower, mounted upon an assembly of bars and thin ropes so that that they could be swung with ease in any direction.
The golden gate of Tor Anroc lay open, but passage was barred by two chariots, stood side-by-side. Their fronts were carved in the likenesses of eagles and golden wings swept back to form their sides. Two pale grey horses stood motionless in front of each, bound by black leather harnesses; upon the back of each chariot stood two stern warriors, one with a long silvered spear, the other with bow bent and arrow nocked. The sentries watched cautiously as Carathril and Aerenis slowed their mounts to a walk and approached, hands held out from their sides.
‘Who approaches Tor Anroc, city of Tiranoc, seat of the Phoenix King?’ the spearman on the left called out.
‘Captain Carathril of Lothern, bearing missives for his majesty Bel Shanaar,’ Aerenis replied as the two halted a dozen paces from the gateway. ‘And I, his aide, Aerenis, lieutenant of Lothern.’
‘Come, Firuthal, why such caution?’ Carathril called out as he dismounted. The spearman stepped down from the back of his chariot and approached; his face was grim.
‘It is not for me to say, friend,’ Firuthal said, extending a hand in greeting, which Carathril gripped firmly. ‘The guard is doubled on the orders of Bel Shanaar. We are told to patrol the roads and borders, to keep watch for strangers. It is not my place to question our commands.’
‘But I am no stranger,’ Carathril said, turning and waving Aerenis to join him. ‘I bring important news for the Phoenix King, and then perhaps when your watch is complete we can share a jug of wine and speak more freely.’
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.’
