Elves: Beyond the Mists of Katura (4 page)

Despite the slow pace, the ox dragging a comfortable litter behind it, and the focused ministrations of the finest elven healers, Nerille’s condition had deteriorated
throughout the journey to Aryndeneth. Auum did not think it had anything much to do with the journey itself, more that the increasing distance from Katura was breaking her heart.

The sadness was infectious. Auum had thought to engender a light spirit on the long days of walking and sailing, but even the normally effervescent Ulysan was muted and introspective. Auum found
himself walking next to Nerille’s litter, as he had for large parts of each day, trying to treasure each moment as if that might banish the sombre mood.

‘I’m sorry to bring you all down,’ said Nerille suddenly.

Auum looked down at her and smiled. ‘I hadn’t realised you were awake.’

‘I rarely sleep. I just watch very quietly or listen with my eyes closed. And I feel a great deal, Auum, and I am sorry that I agreed to this journey. It has caused such
sadness.’

‘Of all of us you have the least need to apologise. Katura has been your life. And your leaving is the passing of something into history that touches us all. Every elf living and every elf
yet to be born owes you a debt of gratitude they cannot hope to repay.’

‘I won’t be around long enough for a start. That’s a lot of gratitude.’

Auum chuckled and a smile broke briefly on Nerille’s face.

‘Well, hang on until we get to Aryndeneth, at least, could you? I’d hate to think all this was a waste.’

‘I’ll remind myself to keep breathing.’

‘You know what I believe?’ said Ulysan.

‘Enlighten us,’ said Auum, glad the big TaiGethen had joined the conversation.

‘We built Katura in the Palm of Yniss. And Yniss favours those who fight to save his children. That’s what you did, Nerille, and so he blessed you with long life. Life enough to see
all your efforts bear fruit, enough to see your achievements gloried. Now you’ve left the palm, those energies will be withheld until you reach Aryndeneth. There you will live for
ever.’

‘Dear me, I do hope not,’ said Nerille and she reached out a hand to Ulysan. ‘But you say the most wonderful, uplifting things. Thank you.’

‘I’m right, you know,’ said Ulysan.

Deep in the forest an ululating cry grew in volume. It was taken up by others from all points of the compass. The roars of panthers rose and fell in concert with the cries of the elves. The
sound shattered the ambience of the rainforest as every one of Tual’s creatures paused to listen. Auum felt a shiver pass through his body and a great weight settle on his shoulders.

It had been seven centuries since this call had echoed beneath the canopy, and it brought back memories of invasion, war and extermination. Only in the bleakest times was the ClawBound call to
muster the TaiGethen sung in this way. It chilled Auum’s blood to hear it again.

‘We’re still six days from Ysundeneth,’ said Ulysan.

‘No,’ said Auum. ‘Eight. I will not fail in this, the happiest of tasks, in order to seek out the grimmest.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Auum,’ said Nerille. ‘Unless my ears have failed me, that was the call of mortal threat. You can’t delay answering it, not by a day, not even
by an hour. The Al-Arynaar will see me safe to Aryndeneth.’

Auum shook his head. ‘After seven hundred years of unfailing service to the whole of elven kind, if their salvation cannot wait another two days it is already beyond us. But, if
you’ll forgive me, Nerille, we will increase our pace.’

The disappointment Auum felt at their arrival in Aryndeneth would live with him for ever. All that he had planned had been ripped to shreds by the ClawBound call. There was no
honour guard of TaiGethen to see them to the doors of the temple. There was no feast of welcome. There would be no ceremonial prayers to dedicate the Palm of Yniss back to Tual’s
denizens.

Nerille’s arrival, marking the end of one of the more glorious chapters of elven history, passed almost unnoticed.

The grand old Gyalan elf was helped from her litter, determined to walk across the apron and into the temple to pray. Auum and Ulysan flanked her. Tulan and the Al-Arynaar walked behind them.
Early evening sunlight was warming the forest after a brief deluge. Steam rose into the canopy, shafts of sunlight sparkled against the multi-coloured glass tiles in the temple roof. Aryndeneth
should have been at peace.

Auum looked around him. The usual TaiGethen guards were already gone to join the muster. Inside the temple the atmosphere was subdued and anxious. Prayers were being led by senior priests, and
the sounds of light and laughter that Auum associated with the temple were muted. Auum laid his hand on the shoulder of a young priest kneeling by the harmonic pool. The
iad
looked up, her
smile brittle.

‘Auum.’ She rose to her feet and her smile broadened. ‘Nerille? We are honoured you have chosen to come and live with us. I am Tanyse. Welcome to Aryndeneth.’

‘Thank you, Tanyse,’ said Nerille. ‘Now I wonder if you could find me a place to lie down. I crave a proper bed and mattress after the hammocks Auum has made me sleep in all
the way here.’

Tanyse laughed, and it was a sound that danced across the dome, lightening the atmosphere.

‘He really should have brought a bed with him,’ said Tanyse.

‘I wanted to but Ulysan refused to carry it,’ said Auum.

‘Only because the frame got caught in the lianas the whole time,’ said Ulysan.

Tanyse held out her hand. ‘If you’ll do me the honour, I’ll show you to your rooms in the village. The bed there holds the prayers of every priest in Aryndeneth.’

‘Bless you, Tanyse,’ said Nerille taking her hand. ‘I think we are going to get along.’

‘Tanyse,’ said Auum. ‘Where is Onelle?’

Tanyse nodded towards the back of the temple. ‘She’s in the chamber of light. What’s going on, Auum?’

‘I hope she might be able to tell me. Has she heard from Drech?’

‘I think so,’ said Tanyse. ‘She hasn’t spoken much since.’

‘Bless you,’ said Auum. ‘Nerille, you are in the best of hands. I’m sorry your arrival was not greeted with the ceremony you deserve.’

‘Gyal’s tears, I’m not,’ said Nerille. ‘Look in on me before you head off to save us all, will you?’

‘I would deem it a crime not to do so,’ said Auum. ‘Ulysan, check on the Al-Arynaar numbers and come back to me at evening prayer.’

Auum trotted into the lantern-lit corridor beyond the statue of Yniss and up to the door of the chamber of light. It was a large chamber, set with windows in both outside walls and in the
ceiling. Mirrors further reflected the natural light that came in, bathing the small shrine and its mats and benches with a warm gentle glow.

Onelle was sitting on a bench looking out into the rainforest. When the training of mages had been moved to Herendeneth she had elected to remain here, ostensibly to welcome and orient potential
adepts before their travel to the island. But the truth was she didn’t feel safe anywhere else. Some memories would never fade.

‘I’m not sure even the prayers of light can help, can they?’

Onelle turned from the window. ‘We must never turn away from faith in however small a measure. That’s your teaching, isn’t it, Auum?’

Auum inclined his head in acknowledgment.

‘You know why I’m here, don’t you?’ he asked.

Onelle nodded and stood up. She looked well, if you saw past the worry on her face. Her hair was lustrous and she carried her frame proudly. Peace at Aryndeneth had been very kind to her.

‘I had contact yesterday at dawn,’ she said. ‘Takaar has brought a human to Ysundeneth. He is warning of another invasion. It’s stirred up quite a panic in the
city.’

‘I bet it has,’ said Auum. ‘Takaar’s understanding of the word discretion is sadly lacking. Who requested the ClawBound to call the muster?’

Onelle swallowed. ‘Takaar did.’

Of all the names Auum had expected to hear, his was not among them.

‘What?’

‘Drech says that Takaar is foretelling an end to the elves.’

Auum sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I don’t believe this. Why did the ClawBound listen to him?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Onelle.

‘Who is this human anyway? Garan come back from the grave to haunt us? Did Drech say?’

‘Drech didn’t know much except his name.’ Onelle searched her mind briefly for the detail. ‘It was . . . curse my leaky brain . . .
Stein
, that was it.
Stein.’

Auum felt cold and his fury towards Takaar evaporated while a pain grew in the centre of his chest. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain,’ said Onelle. ‘Why?’

‘I have to get to Ysundeneth.’

‘What is it?’ asked Onelle. ‘What’s wrong?’

Memories long buried clawed their way back to the surface. Fears long forgotten started his hands trembling and made his heart quicken.

‘Don’t leave here. Not unless you hear a general call to evacuate everyone south. Takaar may not have been overreacting.’ Auum kissed Onelle’s forehead. ‘Pray,
Onelle. Pray this Stein is a fraud and Takaar has been fooled. I’ll send word when I can. Look after Nerille. She’s old and frail and I want to see her again before she dies.’

Onelle had tears on her cheeks.

‘You can save us, can’t you, Auum?’

‘I don’t know.’

The palace and temple of Parve was grand beyond the comprehension of all of those who had been forced to build it, all of those summoned to worship there and all of those who
could not avoid seeing it every single day. Those who dwelt within it cared nothing for it, only for the power that smouldered within its walls and seeped through the stone flags on the floor.

Parve, the only great city of the Wesmen, was largely deserted and had fallen into disrepair as the unity of the tribes had crumbled in the wake of the Sundering at Triverne and the destruction
of the Wytch Lords’ greatest power base. But now it was complete, an aura of strength was building within the temple. Already the first strikes had been made into the east.

The ill-advised unveiling of the apocalyptic spell Dawnthief by Septern had forced the Wytch Lords’ hands but their agents had failed to capture the mage or his creation. The subsequent
assault on Septern’s mansion and workshop had yielded nothing but had cost a large number of Wesman lives. Those were acceptable losses, but the disappearance of two agents was
disappointing.

Ystormun had a great deal more to ponder than that and much to answer for on a personal basis. He had never regained his true status since his return, in a decidedly withered form, from Calaius
more than seven hundred years ago. His reincarnation had been greeted with disdain by the cadre, and his efforts to retake his power had been thwarted at every turn.

He was the first to arrive at the meeting in the Hexerion chamber, and he could still find the energy to raise a smile at its stunningly naive design. In the mistaken belief that all Wytch Lords
considered themselves equal, the room was a perfect hexagon with identical panels each containing a door and a fireplace. The table which dominated the centre of the room was a marble hexagon
mounted on a granite plinth.

A six-spoke iron chandelier hung low over the table, its candles spilling yellow light not quite far enough. The six chairs were identical: high-backed, winged and leather-upholstered. The
tapestries hung on each wall depicted the imagined glories of the Wytch Lords.

It was a ridiculous room, but strangely conducive to the matters of dominion so beloved by the Wytch Lords. And so they endured the chill of the table, the poor light and the erratic heat of the
fires because it was within these walls that they could hate each other with particular acuity.

Ystormun brushed down his thick woollen robes. He pulled his cloak about him and sat in his chair. He closed his eyes and found the trails of the other five as they meandered or strode through
the ether to the Hexerion. All of them felt angry, all of them were prepared to blame one another, and all of them would have particular vitriol for Ystormun.

Before long, all of the soulless immortals were present, and the table had been set with spirits, wines and meats. Ystormun rested his head against the back of his chair, finding that the wings
obscured him from the glares of the vain black-skinned Belphamun on his left and the venous mottled sack of bones that was Giriamun on his right.

Opposite him, Pamun gazed at him with undisguised loathing. His skin seemed tighter than ever over the angled bones of his skull, and the ever-present skullcap had not been pulled down far
enough to hide the pulse in his temple. He was flanked by Weyamun, who boasted downy white hair on his ridged skull, and Arumun, whose eyes were the bleakest of them all and set deep and close
above his narrow nose.

‘I presume your early arrival was to give yourself time to properly reflect upon your latest failure,’ said Pamun, his voice quiet malice.

‘It is a setback, nothing more.’

‘Stein escaped,’ rasped Belphamun.

Ystormun did not turn towards his voice. ‘He was badly injured and flying south. Only the most deluded among you could believe he is still alive. Even a fit and fresh mage could not stay
on the wing for five days straight.’

‘We felt fingers of energy reaching out from the south, from the heart of elven magical power,’ said Pamun.

‘Which proves nothing,’ said Ystormun.

‘Yet we must now assume the elven race is aware of our plans for them,’ said Giriamun.

‘Perhaps we should also pause to dissect Giriamun’s progress and achievements in capturing Dawnthief?’ said Ystormun. ‘It will not divert us for long, after
all.’

Ill feeling flashed around the table, dragging a harsh silence in its wake. Ystormun spoke into the void.

‘It is the single most important task, is it not? Perhaps Giriamun is not up to it. Perhaps another should take the reins.’

‘And who would you suggest? You?’ Giriamun spat the word out as he would rotten meat. ‘You who cannot kill one mage on a defenceless ship?’

‘No, my brother, not I,’ said Ystormun and he smiled and leaned forward. ‘I am sworn to defeat the elves and so I shall. But I am surprised there is no dissent from around the
table. No doubt expressed, no blame to be attached for your abject failure? If we believe the elves are alerted to our intentions, should we also assume Xetesk has captured Dawnthief?’