“You would leave without saying farewell?” she said.
Tyrion bowed his head. “War is coming, my lady. I am needed elsewhere.”
“I know,” she said and the light dimmed as she spoke. “I too have felt the tread of those who worship the lord of murder upon our land. They come with the followers of the dark gods to wreak great wrong against us.”
“Then it is even more imperative I leave now, my lady.”
“You go to your brother?”
“I do,” said Tyrion. “I feel his pain and I must go to him.”
“Yes,” nodded the Everqueen. “You must, but promise me you will heed what he says, for your heart will be filled with anger and you will seek to avenge his hurt.”
“I will,” promised Tyrion as the two handmaidens lifted his armour from the rack and began buckling it to his body. Breastplate, greaves, vambrace, gorget and pauldrons; each was fitted to his form as though designed for him and him alone.
With each piece of armour placed upon his body, Tyrion felt the peace brought by the Everqueen diminish and the warlike spirit of his people surge through his veins. Lastly he lifted his mighty weapon, the runesword, Sunfang, a blade forged in elder days to be the bane of daemons.
Tyrion buckled on his sword belt and accepted the last piece of his armour, a fabulously ornate helm decorated with glittering gems and sweeping golden wings. He reached up and slid the helmet down over his head, feeling the fire of Aenarion’s legacy overwhelm the last of his gentler qualities.
He turned to face the Everqueen and said, “I am ready now.”
“May Asuryan watch over you, my champion,” said the Everqueen, moving aside to let him pass.
Tyrion marched from the pavilion into a clearing within the forest of his queen, a wondrous kingdom of dreams that nestled beneath a patchwork sky of deepest blue. Tall trees with great, arching canopies of emerald green surrounded him and the sound of crystal laughter drifted from beneath their enchanted boughs.
Darting sprites whipped through the undergrowth and glimmering lights ghosted in the deepest reaches of the forest. Magic was in the air, taken deep into the lungs with every breath, and Tyrion felt an ache in his heart that he must leave.
Music and song filled the air and beautiful elves of both sexes danced beneath a rain of petals, garlanded with flowers and laughing as though the cares of the world were unimportant and far distant.
For a moment Tyrion despised them. What did such revellers know of the blood he had shed and the sacrifices he had made to keep them safe? How dare they dance and sing as though the darkness of the world was not their concern?
He was gripping Sunfang’s hilt when a gentle hand touched his and the rage fled from his body.
“Calm yourself, my prince,” said the Everqueen. “Do not let the curse of your forefather lead you down the same path he once trod. You resisted the call of the Widowmaker once, you will do so again.”
Tyrion let out a deep breath and turned as he heard the whinny of horses approaching and the joyous note of a silver clarion. He saw a group of armoured knights on horseback, a silver assemblage of glorious warriors in gleaming ithilmar armour and shimmering white robes. Their silver helms were polished to a mirror sheen and they carried long white lances tipped with blades that shone like diamonds in the dappling sun.
Each rode a pale white horse, draped in cloth of blue and white and armoured in flexible ithilmar barding that caught the sunlight in a multitude of glittering sparks.
At the head of the knights rode Belarien, Tyrion’s boon companion and most trusted lieutenant. Alone of the knights, his helmet was furnished with a set of feathered wings that swept back from the cheek plates, indicating that he was the leader of this warrior band.
Belarien led a magnificent white stallion sheathed in a caparison of deepest blue and armoured in a similar fashion to the other horses of the knights, though with a girth of gold and gems encircling his deep chest. But as Tyrion was above the knights, so too was his horse more magnificent than those of the Silver Helms.
This was Malhandir, a gift from the kingdom of Ellyrion and last of the bloodline of Korhandir, father of horses. No finer mount existed in the world and Tyrion felt a measure of his war-lust ease as he went to meet his steed.
Belarien handed him the reins and Tyrion climbed smoothly into the saddle as a crowd gathered to watch the knights depart. The Everqueen’s handmaidens sang songs of glory and musicians played epic laments from elder days as the knights’ guidon unfurled Tyrion’s personal banner.
The knights cheered as the wind caught the long streamer of crimson silk, revealing an embroidered golden phoenix entwined with the Everqueen’s silver dove.
Tyrion looked down from his horse and bowed his head towards the shimmering beauty of the Everqueen.
She smiled and a beam of yellow sunlight speared through the treetops to shine through the silken banner.
Tyrion felt his spirits soar, watching the phoenix ripple as though aflame.
“Knights of the Silver Helm!” he cried. “We ride for Saphery!”
* * *
Caelir rode through the morning, pushing the black horse hard as he journeyed towards the northern horizon. Though the battle of Finuval Plain had spread throughout the northern reaches of Saphery, he had ridden through the heart of it at last and the melancholy gloom of the moor receded with each mile that passed beneath him.
He had woken upon the hillock where the Witch King himself had stood on that fateful day when Teclis had struck him down and banished him from Ulthuan once more. Whether Caelir had been in any danger from the dark shadow from the past, he did not know, but if he had been imperilled, the spirits of the fallen Asur had recognised him as one of their own and kept him safe.
The image of the Witch King still burned in his mind, but it was a phantom, fading like a dream as he travelled onwards. The further he rode from the battlefield, the more he felt the elven land come to life, as though the magic of Saphery was only now reclaiming land tainted by the tread of its enemies.
He crossed slender rivers that flowed crystalline through the landscape and Caelir quenched his thirst in their waters, though hunger still gnawed at his belly. A night’s rest had refreshed his horse, and each time they stopped to rest, it ate heartily of the verdant grasses. His steed would have no problem reaching Avelorn, but he was going to need some nourishment before then.
Caelir reckoned upon reaching the realm of the Everqueen with perhaps another few days’ ride and he could just make out the bright green limits of the northern forests.
He had seen yet more signs of travellers, the trails of wagons and horsemen riding side by side across the moor now a familiar sight, and had decided to follow them in the hope of obtaining some food. He had no coin with which to buy it, but he still had the strange dagger that could not be drawn. It was of little use to anyone, but perhaps one of the travellers would find it curious enough to trade for a little sustenance.
Some hours after midday, Caelir and his mount reached a shallow ford and waded through the water. He tilted his head back, enjoying the cold, crispness of the meltwater as it splashed on the rocks marking the crossing and filled the air with refreshing spray and glittering rainbows.
On the other side of the river, he saw deep tracks in the sodden earth of the riverbank and slid from his saddle to examine them. Whatever other memories he had forgotten, he had not lost his skills as a tracker and knew this trail was no more than a few hours old.
Caelir leapt back onto his horse and rode onwards, pushing harder than he would normally dare. Darkness would be upon him soon and he had no wish to spend another night alone upon the Finuval Plain, even far out on the fringes of the battlefield.
The sun dipped into the west and the sky deepened from shimmering blue to dusky purple. He had all but despaired of catching up to the travellers before him when he saw a series of twinkling lights ahead, shining silver and gold in the gloaming.
He slowed his
pace as he saw that the lights were not moving and heard voices raised in song followed by enthusiastic clapping. Music soared and he heard unabashed laughter wrung from many throats.
As Caelir drew closer, he saw three brightly painted carriages drawn up in a curved line, each decorated with gleaming lacquer that shone in the light of oil burners suspended from tall staves arranged in a circle around a colourful rug. A crowd of elves sprawled languidly on the ground before the rug, its surface decorated with twisting symbols and patterns that drew the eye in confusing spirals.
A delicate elf maid with winsome features danced in the centre of the rug, spinning and leaping with joy as music flowed through her. She danced with her eyes closed, her limbs flowing fluidly around her and her body seeming to float in the air as though held aloft by the notes.
Caelir saw the musicians at the side of the wide rug and for a fleeting second he had the distinct impression that the music was playing them, its desire to be heard and enjoyed using their breath and fingers as a means to manifest its bounty.
The audience watched the performance with rapturous eyes and Caelir found he could not tear his eyes from the maiden’s sensuous dance. Her skin gleamed in the torchlight and the gossamer thin fabric of her slip clung to her lithe, athletic form.
The music shifted in tempo, becoming faster and faster and driving the dancing girl to incredible heights of ecstasy. The audience whooped and cried as her form became a twisting blur of radiant skin and light.
Then suddenly it was over, the music died and the dancing girl made one final leap into the air. She twisted as she descended and landed gracefully in the centre of the rug, her head thrown back and her arms outstretched.
Applause exploded from the audience and Caelir found himself joining in, desperate to show his appreciation for this incredible performance.
The sound of clapping faded as the gathering became aware of his presence and he felt himself blush as open faces turned towards him with curious expressions.
Caelir slid from the back of his horse as a tall elf with lush features and long silver hair moved from the audience and came towards him. He extended his hand to Caelir.
“Welcome, dear boy, I am Narentir,” said the elf, his voice lyrical. “Will you join us?”
“Caelir,” he replied. “And yes, I will join you.”
“Most excellent,” said Narentir, guiding him towards the firelight. “I take it you liked Lilani’s performance then?”
Caelir nodded and the dancing girl threw him a coquettish grin before vacating the rug as other performers took her place.
“Very much,” said Caelir as Narentir handed him a silver goblet of smoky, aromatic wine. “I have never seen anyone move like her.”
“I shouldn’t think you have, she’s a rare jewel is our Lilani.”
Smiling faces surrounded him as Narentir led him into the audience gathered about the rug. They were genuinely pleased to see him and Caelir felt the tension within his chest ease at the sincerity of the welcome.
He took a drink from the goblet and gasped in pleasure as it ran like liquid smoke down his throat. The wine was sweet, almost unbearably so, and its bouquet was that of a wild forest where creatures of legend still roamed free. Caelir smiled as it conjured visions of fabulous gardens, sun-dappled glades and the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine.
“You’ve never had dreamwine before, have you?” said Narentir as they sat beside the rug and the musicians began to play once more.
“Yes,” said Caelir, giddy from the taste, “but this is good. Very good.”
“Be careful, though,” said Narentir. “You shouldn’t drink too much of it.”
“I have a strong stomach.”
“It’s not your stomach you need worry about,” smiled Narentir as he took another drink.
“No?”
Narentir laughed. “Do as you will, dear Caelir. Perhaps it will help your performance.”
“My performance? What performance?”
“Everyone takes their turn upon the rug.”
“But I’m not a singer and I can’t dance,” said Caelir.
Narentir smiled. “That doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Caelir opened his mouth to protest, but the elves standing on the rug began their performance and all other sounds ceased as they sang ancient songs of love and rapture. He wanted to tell Narentir that he could not entertain them, but his enjoyment of the singers drew out a remembrance of the unknown talents Kyrielle had discovered within him.
Another sip of wine relaxed him and Caelir smiled contentedly as he settled back to listen to the performance. The singers’ voices were exquisite, their music and lyrics swirling around the torch lit gathering like an unexpected, but wholly welcome guest.
Tears pricked Caelir’s eyes as he felt his soul take flight in time with their achingly beautiful melodies.
* * *
The ride back to Cairn Auriel was without the magic that had accompanied the ride towards the White Tower. It felt strange not to be riding Lotharin, though Irenya was a fine steed and bore him proudly on her back.
They rode in silence for much of the way, Rhianna lost in thought and Eldain unwilling to break the silence for fear of what might be said. Yvraine once again rode with them, Mitherion Silverfawn insisting that the young Sword Master accompany them, though now she rode a powerful Sapherian gelding.
After seeing her martial prowess in battle, Eldain wasn’t inclined to gainsay the mage, and welcomed her presence. If war were coming to Ulthuan, there were worse things to have at your side than a Sword Master of Hoeth.
The land itself seemed to recognise the strained mood that had settled upon them and restrained its more outlandish excesses of enchantment. Magic still permeated every breath and whispering sprites gusted through the long grasses with wild abandon, but Eldain paid such sights no mind, too preoccupied with Caelir’s survival and the absurd notion of hunting his own brother.
The subject of what would happen when they caught up with Caelir had arisen when they drew near the cliff top path that led down to Cairn Auriel.
“I wonder if he will remember us,” said Rhianna, breaking the silence of their journey.
“I don’t know,” said Eldain. “He didn’t seem to back at the tower.”
“But maybe seeing us jogged his memory, brought something back.”
“Perhaps, but will it make any difference if he does remember us?”
“It will to me,” said Rhianna. “I can’t bear the thought of him forgetting us.”
“Us?”
“You. Me. His life. Can you imagine how that must feel, Eldain? Not remembering your childhood, your parents, your friends—”
“Your lovers?” interrupted Eldain and he hated the caustic tone he heard in his voice.
Rhianna sighed. “Is that what you are afraid of? That if Caelir’s memory returns and we get him back that I will leave you for him?”
“Wouldn’t you? You were betrothed to him once.”
Rhianna rode close to Eldain and reached out to take his hand. “Caelir is alive and for that I give thanks to Isha, but I have made a commitment to you, Eldain. You are my husband and I love you.”
Eldain felt his throat constrict and squeezed Rhianna’s hand, wishing he could truly believe what she was saying. “I’m sorry. I just… I just don’t want to lose you. I lost you to him once before and… I don’t think I could again.”
“You won’t, Eldain,” promised Rhianna. “I can’t deny that seeing Caelir again brought back a lot of emotions, but much has changed since he and I were together. You and I are married. And there is blood on his hands.”
There is blood on his hands…
Eldain fought down the guilty nausea building in his stomach as Yvraine said, “There is also the question of what happened to him in Naggaroth. The druchii held him in the dungeons of the Witch King for over a year. The Caelir you both knew may no longer exist.”
“Wh
at do you mean?”
“I have heard it said that the loyal slave learns to love the lash,” said the Sword Master. “Your brother may yet be an enemy of Ulthuan.”
“What are you saying?” said Eldain, hearing a cold anger in Yvraine’s voice.
“I am saying that when we find Caelir, we may have to kill him.”
“Kill him?”
Yvraine nodded. “Who knows what else he has been sent back to do? What if the trap to catch the Loremaster was just the first of his missions of assassination?”
“I cannot kill my own brother,” said Eldain, forcing the words from his mouth when he saw Rhianna’s look of horror at what Yvraine had just said.
“You may have to,” said Yvraine as she reached the cliff top path. “But if you can’t, I will.”
The Sword Master rode onto the path that led down the cliff to Cairn Auriel and Eldain and Rhianna shared a look of unease as they followed her. The idea that their hunt might end in blood had clearly not occurred to her, but in Eldain’s mind it had been the only possible outcome.
As he watched Rhianna ride onto the path, cold resolve hardened in his heart and he knew he would have no hesitation in striking Caelir down should the fates decree they stand face to face once again.
He had come so far and gained so much that he could not bear the thought of losing everything again. The guilt would always be with him, but no burden was too great to keep Rhianna by his side, no deed unthinkable and no price too steep.
A small fleet of ships bobbed in the glittering blue water against the floating quays of Cairn Auriel and red tiled dwellings rose up in tiered layers from the sea. Eldain thought the scene unbearably sad, picturing druchii ships sailing into the bay and fanatical warriors of the Witch King butchering women and children as the streets ran red with blood.
He shook off such grim images and rode onto the path. The blooms garlanded around the trellises were now white flowers of spring and the fragrances were those of the dawn.