“I fear that is a poison already spread far by Morathi,” replied Bel Shanaar. “The Naggarothi have been set against the other realms long before this day; ever have they been independent of thought and deed. Many in Nagarythe, not least Morathi, believe Malekith to be the true successor to Aenarion, and see me as usurper. By giving over command of our armies to the prince, it may be taken as a sign of weakness on my part. I will be seen as ineffective, unable to lead my own subjects. Another must command the army of Ulthuan, in my name alone. I will force Malekith to agree to this condition before I leave for the Isle of Flame.”
“I understand, your majesty,” said Carathril. “Yet, I still do not know what duty it is that you ask of me.”
The Phoenix King pulled forth a parchment scroll from the folds of his robes and handed it to Carathril.
“Keep this safe, on your person at all times,” the Phoenix King said.
“What is it?” asked Carathril.
“It is better that you do not know,” said Bel Shanaar. “You must pass it to Prince Imrik at the council.”
“That is all, your majesty?” said Carathril, wondering what message could deserve such secrecy.
“Let no other see it!” insisted Bel Shanaar, leaning forwards and grasping Carathril by the wrist. “Let no other know that you bear it!”
Bel Shanaar sat back with a sigh, and then smiled.
“I trust you, Carathril,” he said.
Before noon, Carathril had set out, the missive of the Phoenix King hidden in a leather canister under his robes, next to his heart. With him rode Prince Elodhir and a contingent of Tiranoc knights, to ensure the council was ready for the arrival of the Phoenix King. For Carathril, the journey was unremarkable; he had ridden back and forth across Eagle Pass dozens of times since becoming herald for Bel Shanaar. For six days they rode eastwards, crossing the mountains without incident, and met with Prince Finudel on the eastward side of the pass, just south of his capital at Tor Elyr. The two companies joined for the two days of journeying to Atreal Anor, where they took separate ships. Carathril was bound for Lothern to meet with Prince Haradrin, while Finudel and Elodhir were to set course straight for the Isle of Flame, to prepare the Shrine of Asuryan for the council.
Both ships travelled south and east across the Sea of Dusk, westernmost of the two bodies of water that made up the Inner Sea, skirting the coast of Caledor. Their southerly route took them away from the Isle of the Dead at the centre of the Inner Sea, where the mage Caledor Dragontamer and his followers still stood, locked in eternal stasis within the centre of Ulthuan’s magical vortex. Rather than pass by the ill-fated isle, the ships navigated the Strait of Cal Edras, between Anel Edras and Anel Khabyr, which formed the outermost pair of islands of a long archipelago that curved out from Caledor towards the Isle of the Dead. Once through the Cal Edras, the ships parted company.
There were many ships in the Bay of Whispers, plying trade between the coastal villages of Caledor and Saphery, passing in and out of the Straits of Lothern. Carathril spoke to a few of the other crews, and found them to be mostly unaware of the true extent of the tragedy that had happened in the north.
Word had spread of Malekith’s expulsion and despite this setback many seemed confident of the prince’s ability to reclaim Nagarythe. Carathril chose not to disavow the sailors of their current optimism, knowing that it would be upon ships that news of any disaster would spread fastest, setting panic like a fire in the heart of Ulthuan.
As they sailed onwards towards Lothern, Carathril wondered if his view of life had once been as blinkered as that of his fellow elves. They seemed to be preoccupied with their own dreams and ambitions, and did not give much thought to other forces outside of their immediate lives. He concluded that he had been the same; believing that the cults had been a problem but never once considering the extent to which they had infected the society of Ulthuan, never seeing the threat they truly posed.
The docks at Lothern were as busy as ever, packed with merchantmen returning from the burgeoning colonies or readying to depart with cargoes of goods from the realms of Ulthuan. In a way, it heartened Carathril to see the life of his home city bustling and progressing as if nothing had happened; yet deep inside he knew that this was all soon to change and that his people were utterly unprepared.
For over a thousand years since Bel Shanaar’s election as Phoenix King, relative peace had reigned over Ulthuan. War and bloodshed was something brought back in stories from across the seas, and the elves had become complacent, perhaps even indulgent. Now Carathril could see that it was that very security and comfort, the social ennui of an entire people, which had allowed the pleasure cults to flourish so well.
There was no guard to greet Carathril at the Prince’s Quay, for his arrival was to be kept secret lest cultists in Lothern learned of what Malekith and Bel Shanaar planned. He rode quickly through the city, allowing the chatter and crowds to flow around him unnoticed. So disturbed had Carathril become, so anxious of what the future held, that there was no joy in his homecoming. His thoughts were dark as he rode up the winding streets to the hilltops where the manses and palaces of the nobility were built.
The palace of Prince Haradrin was not a fortress like Tor Anroc or Anlec, but rather a wide spread of houses and villas set out in ornate gardens upon the mount of Annui Lotheil, which overlooked all of the city and the straits.
Carathril made directly for the Winter Palace, where he knew Prince Haradrin would be staying. The sentries at the gate recognised him as he approached and stepped aside without word to let him pass.
Prince Haradrin granted him audience immediately, in a great domed hall, its ceiling cunningly painted so that as light from the windows struck it at different times of the day it pictured the movement of the sun in a summer sky and then descended into a glowing twilight.
Before the assembled court Carathril relayed the recent news as concisely as he could, and the princes listened intently and without interruption.
“Bel Shanaar calls upon the princes of Eataine to remember their oaths to the Phoenix Throne,” the herald concluded.
“And what does Bel Shanaar expect from Eataine?” asked Prince Haradrin.
“The Sea Guard and Lothern Guard must stand ready to fight, highness,” said Carathril. “He calls for Prince Haradrin to attend a council upon the Isle of Flame.”
“Who else shall be at this council?” asked Haradrin.
“All of the princes of Ulthuan are expected to attend, to pledge their support to the Phoenix King’s cause,” said Carathril with a small bow of deference.
“Though now herald to Bel Shanaar, you were born of Lothern, Carathril,” Haradrin said, standing up from his throne and walking closer. “Tell me truthfully, what is Bel Shanaar’s intent?”
Carathril felt the letter to Imrik against his skin but kept his gaze steadily upon the prince.
“He would rid our people of the curse of the cults,” Carathril said evenly. “War is coming, highness.”
Haradrin nodded without comment before turning to his courtiers gathered about the throne.
“Eataine will stand beside Tiranoc,” he declared. “Send word to the Sea Guard that they should return to Lothern. They shall patrol the Bay of Whispers and bring word to me of all that passes on the ships of the Inner Sea. We shall not yet raise the call to arms, but upon my return be ready to do so. If war is to be our fate, Eataine shall not flinch from her duty.”
Carathril was content to spend the following days wandering the city, safe in the knowledge that his part in these matters had been played. He would accompany Haradrin to the Isle of Flame, deliver the Phoenix King’s letter to Imrik and then await the arrival of Malekith and Bel Shanaar. Carathril had resolved that he would ask the Phoenix King to absolve him of his duty as herald so that he could return to his rightful station as a captain of Lothern. While he had been content to march alongside Malekith on his expedition, if full-scale war was to come, Carathril wanted to fight w
ith his own folk, in the army of Eataine.
As he walked the city, Carathril inquired after Aerenis, but of his friend he heard nothing. Wherever he asked, Carathril heard conflicting tales of his lieutenant’s whereabouts. Shared acquaintances told Carathril that his friend had been seen little since returning from Tor Anroc those many years ago. Many thought he was on constant duty at the palace, attending the prince, others thought he had been despatched to one of the outlying towns to train young spearmen. Some claimed that he had resigned his commission and sailed over the sea to a new life.
Though disturbed by the lack of information concerning his friend, there was little Carathril could do further, for he was due to sail with Prince Haradrin to the Isle of Flame. The time came when the royal entourage was ready to depart, three days before the deadline set by Bel Shanaar. Carathril was given a berth upon Haradrin’s elegant eagleship, although by rights he was not yet part of Lothern’s guard again.
As the ship set sail and moved away from the wharf, Carathril looked back at Lothern, seeing it as if for the first time. He looked at the great statues of the gods surrounding the bay: Kurnous the Hunter, Isha the Mother, Vaul the Smith and Asuryan the Allfather. He had barely noticed them before, having grown up with them in sight. Now he looked again at their stern faces and wondered what part they would play in coming events. He also wondered if there were, out in the city somewhere, hidden cellars with images of the darker gods: shrines to the like of Nethu, Anath Raema, Khirkith, Elinill and the other cytharai.
The immense gold and ruby gate to the Inner Sea was open, and hawkships darted ahead of the prince’s vessel to clear a path between the crowd of fishing boats, pleasure barges and cargo ships. Once out of the Straits of Lothern, the ship’s captain set full sail and the eagleship danced across the waves, gliding across the water at full speed. The sun shone overhead and the blue waters glittered, and for a while at least Carathril was content to stand at the rail and marvel at the beauty of Ulthuan; happy to forget his woes as he lost himself in the sparkle of water and the blue sky.
They sailed overnight with reduced sail, and it was mid-morning when they came into view of the Isle of Flame. Though Carathril had passed it many times before on his way to Saphery, Cothique and Yvresse, the Shrine of Asuryan still amazed him. The white pyramid rose up from a marbled courtyard set within an open meadow.
The walls of the shrine blazed with reflected sunlight, bathing the grass and surrounding water with its majesty. The isle itself was surrounded by gently shoaling white beaches and long piers stretched out into the water. There were four vessels already moored as they hove into the dock: the ships of other princes already arrived on the isle.
—
An Act of Infamy
It was the day before Bel Shanaar and Malekith were due to leave Tor Anroc for the council upon the Isle of Flame when the Phoenix King commanded the prince of Nagarythe to attend him in his throne room. Malekith walked quickly to the audience chamber, his instinct for intrigue curious as to what the Phoenix King had to say.
“I have been thinking deep upon your words,” Bel Shanaar proclaimed.
“I am pleased to hear that,” said Malekith. “May I ask what the nature of your thoughts has been?”
“I will put your idea to the princes,” said Bel Shanaar. “A single army drawn from all kingdoms will prosecute this war against the vile cults.”
“I am glad that you agree with my reasoning,” said Malekith, wondering why Bel Shanaar had brought him here to tell him what he already knew.
“I have also been giving much thought to who is best qualified to lead this army,” said Bel Shanaar, and Malekith’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation.
“I would be honoured,” said the prince of Malekith.
Bel Shanaar opened his mouth to say something but then closed it again, a confused frown upon his brow.
“You misunderstand me,” the Phoenix King then said. “I will nominate Imrik to be my chosen general.”
Malekith stood in stunned silence, left speechless by the Phoenix King’s announcement.
“Imrik?” he said eventually.
“Why not?” said Bel Shanaar. “He is a fine general, and Caledor is the most stable of all the realms at the current time. He is well respected amongst the other princes. Yes, he will make a good choice.”
“And why do you tell me this?” snapped Malekith. “Perhaps you seek to mock me!”
“Mock you?” said Bel Shanaar, taken aback. “I am telling you this so that you will speak in favour of my decision. I know that you have much influence and your word will lend great weight to Imrik’s authority.”
“You would raise up the grandson of Caledor over the son of Aenarion?” said Malekith. “Have I not forged new kingdoms across the world at the head of armies? If not my bloodline, than my achievements must qualify me above all others.”
“I am sorry that you feel this way, Malekith,” said Bel Shanaar, unabashed. “The council will endorse my choice, you would do well to align yourself with me.”
At this, Malekith’s frayed temper snapped utterly.
“Align myself to you?” he snarled. “The hunter does not align himself to his hound! The master does not align himself to his servant!”
“Choose your next words carefully, Malekith!” warned the Phoenix King. “Remember who it is that you address!”
The Naggarothi prince mastered his anger, biting back further retorts.
“I trust that my protest has been recognised,” he said with effort. “I urge you to reconsider your decision.”
“You are free to speak your mind at the council,” said Bel Shanaar. “It is your right to argue against Imrik, and to put forward yourself as candidate. We shall let the princes decide.”
Malekith said nothing more, but bowed stiffly and left, silently seething. He did not return to his chambers, but instead made for the wing of the palace where his mother was kept in captivity. Ignoring the guards at the door to her chambers, he knocked and then let himself in.
The chambers were well furnished, with exquisitely crafted furniture and splendid tapestries upon the walls. Though a prisoner, his mother had lost none of her aesthetic, and over the years had built up quite a collection of art and other ornaments. All of the finery however was somewhat overshadowed by the silvered runes carved upon the walls: mystical wards that kept the winds of magic at bay and thus denied Morathi her sorcerous power. They were a precaution Bel Shanaar had insisted upon.
There was no sign of her in the reception room, and Malekith strode through to the dining chamber beyond. There Morathi sat at a small table, a plate of fruit before her. She plucked a grape from the platter and looked up at him as he stormed in. She said nothing but simply raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
“Bel Shanaar will name Imrik as the general of the army,” growled Malekith.
Morathi dropped the grape back onto the plate and stood up.
“You think he will win the vote?” she asked.
“Of course he will,” snapped the prince. “He is the Phoenix King, after all, and Imrik would be the best choice after me. If Imrik is made commander of the army, then Bel Shanaar has as good as named his successor. My chance will have passed and Ulthuan will be doomed to a slow dwindling under ever-lesser kings. My father’s legacy will be cast upon the ashes of our history and his line will dwindle and die. I cannot allow that to happen.”
“Then Bel Shanaar must not be allowed to put forward his arguments,” said Morathi quietly. “The time for plotting and patience has come to an end. It is time to act, and swiftly.”
“What do you mean?” asked Malekith. “How will I prevent Bel Shanaar making his declaration?”
“You must kill him,” she said.
Malekith paused, surprised at himself for not immediately dismissing the idea. In fact, the thought appealed to him. He had waited sixteen centuries to become Phoenix King, a long time even for an elf. Why settle for becoming general of
Ulthuan and waiting the gods only knew how long for Bel Shanaar to die of natural causes? Better to take the initiative and see the gambit out for good or ill.
“What must I do?” Malekith asked without hesitation.
“Palthrain is one of my creatures,” Morathi said. “Long has he been my spy in Tor Anroc. He will hide certain objects in Bel Shanaar’s chambers, as evidence of the Phoenix King’s worship of Ereth Khial. These will be discovered by you, and you will go to Bel Shanaar’s rooms to confront him with this proof. When you arrive, he will be dead, having poisoned himself rather than face the truth.”
“He leaves on the morrow for the Isle of Flame,” Malekith snarled in frustration. “There is no time to fabricate such a plot!”
“Fabricate?” laughed Morathi. “You are so short-sighted sometimes, my dear son. The evidence is already in place, and has been for years. Long have I mulled over how to rid us of this wretched swine, and now the time has come. See Palthrain and get the poison from him. Find some pretence to visit the usurper and give him the poisoned wine. Everything else will already be taken care of.”
Malekith paused, considering the implications of what he was about to do.
“If what you say is true, how is it that you have not acted before?” said Malekith. “Why have you suffered embarrassment and captivity when you could have struck down he who vexes us both?”
Morathi stood and embraced her son.
“Because I am a loving mother,” she said quietly. Standing back, she smoothed the creases in her dress. “If Bel Shanaar had been slain, Imrik would have stood ready to take his place, as he does now. There would be war between Nagarythe and Caledor. I could not hand you such a poisoned chalice. Now you are stronger and your claim will be agreed by the princes. Imrik’s lone voice will not be an obstacle.”
[Sundering 01] - Malekith Page 32