And the best way to do that was to perform the cleansing ritual of the Sword Masters.
Yvraine placed the huge sword across her lap and closed her eyes, letting the natural sounds of Ellyrion ease her into her meditative trance.
Her breathing slowed and her senses spread out from her body as she slowly whispered the mantra of the Sword Masters of Hoeth as taught to her by Master Dioneth of the White Tower. Yvraine felt the softness of the grass beneath her, the warmth and fecundity of the earth below that and the raging currents of magic that pierced the very rock and kept the island of Ulthuan from vanishing beneath the waves.
The air around her sparkled as the magic carried on the wind became attuned to her subtle vibrations and a soft glow built behind her eyelids. In one smooth motion she drew her sword and held the silver, leaf-shaped blade before her, its length enormous and its weight surely extraordinary, yet Yvraine wielded it as though it were as light as a willowy sapling.
Her pale, almost white, hair reflected in the smooth sheen of the blade, the perfection of the weapon matched only by the steely concentration in her sharp, angular features. Yvraine let a breath of anticipation whisper from her lips and nodded to herself.
Her legs uncoiled like striking snakes and in the blink of an eye she was standing, the sword raised high above her and glittering in the sun. The blade spun in her hands and her grip was reversed, the sword slashing in an intricate series of manoeuvres that were almost too fast for the naked eye to follow.
Her feet were in constant motion as she lunged, parried and thrust at imaginary opponents, the mighty blade cleaving the air in an impenetrable web of ithilmar that swooped gracefully around her body. One by one, she performed the thirty basic exercises of the Sword Masters before moving onto more advanced techniques.
Once more she brought the enormous sword upwards and held it before her face, the golden quillons level with her cheeks and her breathing crisp and even. With barely a trace of visible effort, Yvraine spun the sword in a dazzling series of manoeuvres that would have made the greatest swordsman of men weep at his own lack of skill and which was beyond all but the most gifted of warriors of Ulthuan. Only through the superlative training of the Loremasters of the White Tower could a warrior transcend mere skill and become a true master of the martial arts to perform feats of swordsmanship beyond imagining.
Mind and body in total harmony, the mighty sword became part of Yvraine, her perfect physical and spiritual qualities manifesting in swordplay that was simply sublime. With a selection of the most advanced techniques performed, she moved into a more personal series of manoeuvres, where her own soul flowed into the blade and informed its every movement.
Each Sword Master had their own particular style with a blade and each warrior bared an element of their heart when they fought, an aspect of their personality that was so unique and distinct as to be unmistakable to another practitioner of the art. Yvraine’s sword reached further and faster, the tip cutting the air in dizzyingly fast sweeps that would have been impossible were it not for the decades of training and her mastery of her own body.
At last the sword ceased its motion; so suddenly that an observer might have been forgiven for thinking it had never moved at all. With a whip of silver steel it was returned to its sheath and Yvraine was cross-legged once more, her breathing returning to normal as she emerged from her meditation.
She opened her eyes, calm and refreshed after her exercises, and smiled as she felt the cobwebs that had entangled her soul during the journey from Saphery fall away from her as though cut by her blade. Yvraine rose smoothly to her feet, slinging the sword around her back and buckling the belt across her armour once more.
She adjusted her cloak over the sword and set off in the direction of the distant villa.
Chapter Three
Calls
First there was light. Then came sound. He could feel the light burning through his eyelids as though someone held a bright lamp before them and kept them tightly shut as he registered more of his environment through his other senses. He lay on a soft mattress, his limbs comfortable and covered by soft bedding. The air was moist and tasted green, with an earthy scent as though he lay outdoors or within a hothouse for exotic plants.
It smelled sweet and pleasant, and he took a deep breath of the myriad scents that surrounded him. Wherever he lay, it was certainly pleasant, without any sense of danger, and he felt no need to move beyond the identification of his surroundings.
He could hear droning insects and the rustle of the leaves disturbed by a soft breeze, as well as soft puffs of what sounded like perfume dispensed from a noblewoman’s atomiser. By degrees, his eyes grew more accustomed to the light, and he risked gradually opening them in stages, adjusting to each level of glare before opening them still further.
At last his eyes were fully open, though the brightness of the light still made him slightly nauseous. Above him, he could see swathes of shimmering panes that rippled like water in golden frames of wire surely too slender to support the weight of such an amount of glass.
Twisting his head, he could see that the strange ceiling stretched away to his left and right, though for how far was a mystery as it was soon obscured by the tall branches of strange trees. He now saw that his earlier suspicion that he was lying outdoors was only partially correct, for he lay within a space whose shape was formed from the trunks of the trees and rendered impermeable by the weaving of bushes and plants between them.
Through the transparent ceiling, he could see clouds chasing one another across the sky, but could feel no breath of wind where he lay. Perhaps the ceiling above him was some form of magical barrier that kept out the worst of the external environment while maintaining a constant internal temperature? As he watched, a portion of one of the shimmering panes seemed to shiver before dispensing a fine spray of water across the plants nearest it.
He tried to sit up, but pulled up short as the muscles in every one of his limbs protested and he collapsed back onto the bed with a grunt of pain. Tentatively he lifted his hands, seeing that they were bound with bandages and feeling a raw numbness in his palms.
But more surprising was the fact that he wore a silver pledge ring on his left hand.
He was married? To whom? And why did he have no memory of her?
A deep and painful ache seized his heart as he tried and failed to remember the name of the maiden that had given him this pledge ring. Was she even now searching for him, unaware that he had survived his shipwreck? He wondered if she might already be mourning him…
He had to get up and discover where he was and find some means of restoring his memory if he were to return to her. Reaching up to his forehead, he felt another bandage covering the side of his head and winced as he probed what was clearly a fresh cut.
How had he come to this place? And where in the name of Isha was it?
All he remembered was floating in the sea, clinging desperately to a fragment of wreckage; beyond that was a blank. There had been a beach and he remembered clawing handfuls of sand as he had pulled himself ashore. He realised he must have been discovered by his fellow elves and the simple fact of his survival made him want to laugh and cry.
His head had been hurt and his palms were raw, but what other wounds did he bear?
He pulled back the soft sheets that covered him and discovered that he was naked beneath them, his flesh pale and obviously starved of sunlight. Tentatively, he pushed himself upright in the bed and probed his flesh for other injuries. He found knots of scar tissue on his hip and shoulder, but they were old wounds, the skin pale and long healed. How he had come by those wounds, he could not remember, but aside from the injuries to his head and palms (and the stiffness of his muscles) he appeared to be otherwise healthy.
Marshalling his strength, he slowly eased himself into a sitting position, his every muscle aching with the effort, and swung his feet onto the floor. Standing up took an effort of will and his heart thudded against his ribs with the
exertion. Suddenly very aware of his nakedness, he looked around for something to wear and saw a small table sitting behind his bed with a fresh shirt and loose leggings.
Swiftly he donned the clothes, the fabric soft and fragrant. When was the last time he had worn fresh clothing? It seemed he had forgotten the softness of silk or the comfort of clothes and, try as he might, he could still remember nothing of his life before his plight in the ocean.
Who was he and how had he come to be floating in the ocean, bloodied and near death?
These were questions he desperately needed answers to, but he had no idea how to get them. Deciding that he had better find out where he was first, he took a few hesitant steps around the verdant room, testing his strength and balance.
He was unsteady at first, but with every step, he felt stronger and more confident.
The chamber he found himself within was a long oval, its perimeter formed by the trunks of slender trees with a shimmering, oily looking bark. He reached out and pressed his fingers against the nearest tree, grimacing at the stickiness of the sap. Reaching up for a wide leaf, he wiped it from his hand, though he had to admit that the fragrance of the sap was pleasant. The more he saw, the more he felt that this place was less like Ulthuan and more like the stories he had heard of the woodland realm of Athel Loren, far to the east in the Old World.
Turning from the tree, he saw that no obvious exit presented itself, but as he approached one end of the room, the coiled vines and creepers intertwined with the trunks pulled back with a rustling hiss, like a curtain of beads parted by an invisible hand.
Startled, he hesitated before moving any closer, but peering through the gap he saw long rows of plants and seed beds stretching out before him and more of the strange, rippling ceiling above them. Cautiously he stepped through and the curtain of vines hissed closed behind him.
This space was much larger than the room he had woken in and displayed some measure of the handiwork of elves: long terraced walls and graceful columns from which hung a variety of outlandish plants – most of which he did not recognise.
The door he had passed through had brought him out midway down what appeared to be a terrace of hanging gardens built into the side of a cliff. High above him, he could just make out the outline of an imposing, plant-wreathed dwelling.
He set off down the nearest aisle of plants in search of a route upwards, the air filled with a multitude of different scents and hot with a moistness that felt good on his skin. To his left, this great garden space rose up in a series of blooming terraces to a sprawling villa, while on the right it fell away in curling paths down the cliffs. Beyond the transparent liquid wall held by the golden wire, he could see the bright light of the morning and the brilliant blue of the great ocean, its vast expanse dotted with mist-shrouded isles.
He shivered as he again felt the cold of the water’s embrace and turned from the ocean.
Wandering down the aisle of strange plants, he felt the unmistakable tingle of magic washing in from the sea. That, combined with the sight of the coast and the misty isles beyond, told him that he must be in Yvresse, though what had brought him here was a mystery he hoped would be answered soon.
He paused to take a closer look at some of the plants, but he could recognise none of them, which did not surprise him, for as far as he knew he was no botanist. Some plants he approached, others he did not, as many of the larger ones had a predatory quality to them; wide, serrated petals and thorny vines that waved in the air like agile whips that appeared to be beckoning him closer.
A powerful scent suddenly filled his nostrils and he turned to see a tall plant with a collection of bright red cones set amid a thorny frill of stamen that drooped like the branches of a willow tree. Almost without conscious thought, he found himself approaching the plant, hearing a strange sound that resonated beyond the simple act of hearing, as though it reached into his mind to soothe his troubled thoughts. The scent of its bloom swelled until it was overpoweringly intoxicating, and his senses filled with its seductive promise.
His steps carried him towards the plant and he smiled dreamily as he watched the red cones slowly flare open to reveal circular mouths ringed with teeth and which leaked glistening saliva.
The sight of such an array of barbed teeth should have alarmed him, but the siren song in his mind kept such thoughts at bay and he continued to walk towards the plant. The drooping stamen slowly drew themselves erect, opening outwards as he walked willingly into their embrace.
Dimly he was aware of a shape standing at his shoulder, but he could not tear his eyes from the gaping, toothed mouths of the plant as more of the sticky saliva moistened the leaves.
Then the soothing song that filled his mind turned to a scream and he cried out as the piercing wail echoed within his skull. The haunting scent of the plant faded and was replaced with the acrid stench of burning leaves. Sparkling fire leapt from the opened mouths of the plant as they writhed in the pellucid blue flames.
Freed from the plant’s bewitchment, he staggered backward, suddenly repulsed by the smell of sap and earth as he dropped to his knees and gagged on the stench. When he had recovered enough, he looked up to see a beautiful elven maid standing before the shrivelled husk of the burned plant, shimmering traces of magical flames dying at her fingertips. Auburn hair held by a woven silver cord at her temple poured across her shoulders and her piercing green eyes regarded him with an expression of faintly amused exasperation.
‘Silly boy,’ she said. ‘Father will be most displeased.’
Eldain hurried down the stairs from the Hippocrene Tower, fastening a velvet tunic over his silk undershirt as he went. Valeina had woken him just after dawn with news that a visitor had arrived at the gates of Ellyr-charoi and was asking to speak to the master of the house.
Normally, Eldain received no visitors and would have sent such a caller on their way unsatisfied, but this was no ordinary guest. When pressed for a description of the visitor, Valeina had described a warrior clad in shining ithilmar armour, a tall plumed helmet and who bore a mighty sword.
Eldain had known immediately what manner of person had arrived at his gates.
A Sword Master, one of the warrior-mystics who travelled the length and breadth of Ulthuan, gathering news and information for the Loremasters of the Tower of Hoeth. One did not refuse the visit of such an individual and thus he had ordered Valeina to prepare a morning meal of fresh bread and fruits while he dressed himself.
What could one of the Sword Masters want in Ellyr-charoi? Even as he framed the question in his mind, a cold dread settled upon him and his last steps into the Summer Courtyard were leaden and fearful. Rhianna was already waiting for him and he could see from her expression that she was similarly surprised at the arrival of this visitor, though her surprise was more of excitement than wariness.
‘Have you seen our guest?’ said Eldain without preamble.
Rhianna shook her head. ‘No, she awaits in the Equerry’s Hall.’
‘She?’
‘Yes, Valeina tells me her name is Yvraine Hawkblade.’
‘Did she also tell you why a Sword Master comes to Ellyr-charoi?’
‘No, but she must bring important news to have come all the way from Saphery.’
Eldain nodded and said, ‘That’s what worries me.’
Together they crossed the courtyard and followed the line of the walls to a tall door of carved ash with gold and silver banding carved into the form of horses. Eldain took a deep breath and pushed open the door, marching through the airy vestibule of white stone and emerging in to the Equerry’s Hall, a wide, dimly lit chamber lined with trophies and wondrous paintings depicting scenes of previous lords of the Éadaoin family at hunt. A long table in the shape of an elongated oval filled the centre of the hall, where in times past the equerries of the noble house would carouse and sing and dance after a successful hunt.
Now, the hall was bare, no songs were sung and it had been decades since last the lord of the
Éadaoin had hunted. Eldain and Rhianna’s entrance scattered fallen leaves and as they passed through the vestibule, the chamber’s occupant looked over from her scrutiny of a painting that showed a noble elf atop a steed of purest white, slaying a foul, mutated beast of the Annulii.
‘Is this you?’ said the Sword Master, her voice soft and melodic.
Eldain glanced at the picture and felt his heartbeat jump. ‘No, it is my brother.’
‘He is very like you.’
‘Was,’ said Eldain. ‘He is dead.’
The Sword Master bowed deeply and Eldain saw the tremendous sword upon her back, the weapon surely almost as tall as its bearer. ‘My apologies, Lord Éadaoin, I am sorry for your loss. And forgive my manners; I have not yet introduced myself. I am Yvraine Hawkblade, Sword Master of Hoeth.’
Yvraine Hawkblade was tall for a female elf, slender and seemingly ill-suited to the role of a Sword Master. Her features were sharper than most elves of Ulthuan and Eldain relaxed as he saw no guile in her young face.
‘And I am Eldain Fleetmane,’ he said. ‘Lord of the Éadaoin family and master of the lands from here to the mountains. And this is my wife, Rhianna.’
Again the Sword Master bowed. ‘It is an honour to meet you and may the blessings of Isha be upon you both.’
‘And on you,’ said Rhianna. ‘You are welcome in our house. Will you join us in our morning meal?’
‘Thank you, I shall,’ said Yvraine. ‘It has been a long and, I confess, tiring journey. I would be glad of some food and water, yes.’
Yvraine took a seat at the table and Eldain caught a shadow of faint disappointment pass across her face and he could well imagine its cause. Ever since the death of his father, the ancestral home of his family had become a place of mourning instead of a place of joy. Brooding silences and ghosts of glories past filled its halls, where once laughter and song had rung from the rafters. Death had reached into the chests of the Éadaoin and stilled the wild beat of their reaver hearts.