02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  With his ensemble complete, Eldain took a silver comb and ran it through his long hair until he was satisfied he had worked out the burrs and knots of the last few weeks travelling. He plaited several iron cords into his hair, and pulled it back into a loose ponytail before securing it at his temples with a circlet of polished ithilmar inset with a liquid sapphire.

  Eldain looked in the mirror to check his appearance, and gave himself a curt nod; satisfied he was the equal of his position in attire. A thin smile touched the corner of his lips, as he realised that this was the first time in many a month he had been able to look in the mirror without despising the reflection.

  He left his chambers and made his way back down to the Summer Courtyard.

  Eldain smiled as he saw that his labours in removing the leaves from the villa’s walls had brought water back to more than just the trough. The fountain in the centre of the courtyard now frothed and burbled, the pool slowly filling with cold mountain water. Leaves floated on the surface, and the wind gusted those lying within the courtyard out through the open gates.

  “Ellyr-Charoi returns to life,” he said, tilting his head back and allowing the sun to warm his skin. The smell of toasting bread drew his attention to the open doors of the Equerry’s Hall. It had been days since Eldain had eaten anything other than berries and leaves, and only now did he realise how famished he was.

  He crossed the courtyard and entered the hall. The smell of sweet tisane and toasted bread made his mouth water. The inside of the Equerry’s Hall was bright and airy, its shuttered windows now thrown open and the dust of neglect being swept away by a warm wind that blew from the high rafters with soft sighs. Platters of toasted bread and cheese, together with copper ewers sat on the table, and Eldain saw his father’s sword lay where his brother had placed it the previous evening.

  Caelir stood before a tall portrait depicting a noble elf atop a pure white steed as he slew a foul, mutated beast of the Annulii. Like Eldain, he too had cleaned and washed himself. He wore earthy riding clothes of fine quality, with dark boots and a short cloak of sky blue. A leather circlet wound with bronze cord secured his hair and Eldain smiled to see his brother dressed as an Ellyrian once more.

  “I didn’t know I looked so heroic,” said Caelir, gesturing towards the picture with what remained of a slice of bread. “This is me, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Eldain. “I had the picture commissioned for Rhianna upon my return from Naggaroth.”

  “Ah,” said Caelir. “It is a memorial.”

  “It was,” agreed Eldain, helping himself to a slice of toasted bread. “Now it is just a portrait, I suppose.”

  “It is a good likeness,” said Caelir. “Who painted it?”

  “An artist of Lothern by the name of Uthien Sablehand.”

  “He is talented.”

  “He ought to be for the money I paid him.”

  Caelir turned away from the portrait, and Eldain was struck by how his brother had aged. Though only a few years separated their births, Caelir had always possessed youthful good looks that made that gap appear much larger. Though his features still bore a roguishly handsome cast, his eyes were those of a veteran.

  “Nobles of Ulthuan in all their finery,” said Caelir, taking in Eldain’s fresh appearance.

  “It felt right,” said Eldain.

  “It should, brother,” agreed Caelir. “We are home. Can you feel it welcoming us?”

  “I can,” agreed Eldain. “It is a good feeling and has been too long in coming.”

  Caelir finished his bread and poured a goblet of warm tisane. “Whatever happened to Valeina?” he asked. “I saw no sign of her in the kitchens or the maids’ quarters. Did you dismiss her?”

  “No,” said Eldain, accepting the goblet as Caelir poured another for himself. “When Rhianna and I left for Saphery, she was still here. Perhaps she rejoined her family in Tor Elyr when word came of the attack on the Eagle Gate.”

  Caelir nodded and said, “More than likely.”

  Eldain sipped the tisane. It was sweet, but the aftertaste stung the tongue with its sharpness. Eldain recognised the blend of flavours, and was instantly transported back to when he and Caelir were little more than callow youths.

  “Mother’s recipe,” he said.

  “Yes, it seemed appropriate,” said Caelir. “She was always the one who brought us together after we quarrelled. Father would be content to let us squabble and bicker, but mother could never bear it when we fought.”

  Eldain smiled at Caelir’s reasoning, and took a seat at the table. He placed the goblet before him and let the familiar smell of wild lemon and honey fill his senses.

  “So what do we do now, Caelir?” he asked.

  “We talk, brother,” said Caelir, taking the seat next to Eldain.

  “What is there left to say that your hands on my neck did not already say?”

  Caelir sipped his tisane before answering. “Tell me all that has happened since your return from Naggaroth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wish to know.”

  Eldain began haltingly, telling Caelir of how he had taken care of Rhianna upon his return from the Land of Chill, eventually taking her as his wife. Caelir’s jaw tightened at this retelling, but he said nothing as Eldain went on to tell of Ellyr-Charoi’s gradual decline and the arrival of Yvraine Hawkblade, the Sword Master from the Tower of Hoeth. He told of their journey across Ulthuan to Saphery, the voyage to the Gaen Vale and finally their arrival in Avelorn.

  In return, Caelir told him of his return to Ulthuan, washed ashore on the coastline of Yvresse, and the beautiful girl who had found him on the beach. Caelir’s eyes misted over as he told of how Kyrielle Greenkin had nursed him back to health, and Eldain remembered meeting her grieving father on the blasted summit of Bel-Korhadis’ tower. Caelir spoke of his journey across the Finuval Plain and his meeting with Narentir’s troupe as they made their way to the forest of the Everqueen.

  Here again, their stories became intertwined as they relived the moment the dark power hidden within Caelir unleashed its darkest sorcery yet. Both brothers had been cast from the forest and ridden to the one place in Ulthuan where they knew they would find sanctuary.

  Ellyr-Charoi.

  Worn thin by their respective tales, Eldain and Caelir sat back, their tisanes cold and the bread forgotten. Silence fell, but it was not uncomfortable. At last, Caelir sat forward.

  “I wanted to kill you, brother. And I nearly did,” he said. “But when your eyes closed, all I could think of was a voice I heard in Avelorn.”

  “What did you hear?” asked Eldain.

  “I think it was the Everqueen,” said Caelir. “I stood before her with the dagger in my hand and I heard a voice like the most beautiful sunrise of Ellyrion.”

  Caelir paused, as though reliving that wondrous voice.

  “What did she say?” asked Eldain.

  “She told me to flee. And to forgive.”

  “Do you think she was talking about me?”

  “There is no one else who needs my forgiveness,” pointed out Caelir.

  Eldain thought of the last time he had stood in the presence of the Queen of Avelorn. He remembered the killing light in her eyes, the ancient power that had passed from mother to daughter down the ages since the world was young. There had been little forgiveness in those eyes, yet she had not killed him. The mortal goodness of Alarielle tempered the merciless power of the Everqueen, and that had spared Eldain’s life.

  Now it had spared it again.

  “You have a good soul, Caelir,” said Eldain. “Better, I think, than most. I deserve your hatred, and to let me live speaks greatly of your heart.”

  “My soul is not so pure, Eldain, you know that,” said Caelir. “And I do not hate you. I did, but I believe that is what the Everqueen meant when she told me I had to forgive. Hatred is the root of all evil, brother. It turns good hearts bad, and sows the seeds for all that is ignoble in this world. I will not carry
hate in my heart. Not anymore.”

  “Not even for the druchii?”

  Caelir shook his head. “Not even the druchii. Once they were like us, and perhaps they can be again.”

  “The druchii will never let their hatred of us dim,” said Eldain.

  “Most likely not,” said Caelir, “but I will not hate them. Not anymore.”

  “The Everqueen touched you deeper than you know, brother.”

  Caelir laughed, a sound Eldain had never thought to hear again. His younger brother leaned forward and said, “You may be right, Eldain. She has power beyond anything you or I will ever understand. Something inside me has changed for the better.”

  Caelir took Eldain’s hand, and Eldain felt closer to his brother now than he ever had before. The connection was powerful, and Caelir’s words touched him deeply.

  “I was foolish, vain and selfish and cared not a whit for the wants and needs of others,” said Caelir. “We both had a duty to Ellyr-Charoi and Ulthuan after father died, but I ignored mine. You shouldered my burden, and one soul is not meant to carry the weight of two.”

  “Then are we at peace, brother?” asked Eldain.

  Caelir said nothing for a few moments, looking over at his portrait.

  “Not yet,” he said, “but I believe we will be. There is still one matter to discuss.”

  Eldain knew what this would be without Caelir having to voice it.

  “Rhianna,” he said.

  “Rhianna,” agreed Caelir. “She is your wife.”

  “Not for long, I would think,” pointed out Eldain. “She hates me now.”

  “For a while she will, but Rhianna is a better person than you or I will ever be. Hate will find no place to lodge within her.”

  Eldain dearly hoped so, but knew that even if Caelir was right, he could not remain wedded to Rhianna. He had won her heart through lies, and no relationship could survive being built upon such rotten foundations. He wondered if she would become Caelir’s wife, and was surprised to find the thought brought no jealousy or pain.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Eldain.

  “We ride for Tor Elyr,” said Caelir. “And we make amends for the damage we have done.”

  “Why Tor Elyr?”

  “We are sons of Ellyrion, and our land is at war,” said Caelir. “Where else would we go?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WAR CALLS

  Eldain walked Lotharin through the gates of Ellyr-Charoi, enjoying the scent of wild flowers borne on the warm summer breeze from the plains. Caelir pulled the gates of their home closed, and Eldain wondered if he would ever return here. Lotharin tossed his mane, stamping at the ground, and Eldain rubbed his neck.

  “Patience, great heart,” he said. “The plains of Ellyrion will be yours to run soon enough.”

  “He is impatient,” said Caelir. “I don’t blame him.”

  “No, I suppose not. It has been too long since I let him have his head on the steppe.”

  Caelir checked Irenya one last time, rubbing her flank with his palm before vaulting into the saddle. For so short a ride to Tor Elyr, a saddle was not necessary, but if they were to ride to war, then it would be madness to fight without one.

  “You are a fine steed, of that I have no doubt,” said Caelir, “but I miss my Aedaris. He was wide-chested and powerful, with long strides and a heart as big as the ocean. You would have liked him.”

  Irenya snorted, and Eldain grinned. “Spoken like a true steed of Ellyrion,” he said.

  Caelir had a fine double-curved bow of yew and starwood looped over his shoulder, and a host of quivers strapped to Irenya’s flanks. A long, curved-bladed sword hung at his hip, for Caelir had insisted that Eldain bear their father’s sword.

  That blade now hung at Eldain’s side, and the weight of duty and responsibility it represented was formidable. He had failed in his duty as a noble of Ulthuan, but he would not fail again. The black handle was wound with thin silver wire, and a polished onyx gleamed at the pommel. He held tight to the sword, its legacy of dutiful service tethering him to this land and his responsibilities more surely than any sworn oath.

  Along with his father’s sword, Eldain too was armed with a bow, and though other Ellyrians might consider him a competent archer only, that still put him head and shoulders above most others of Ulthuan. He mounted up, and settled himself onto Lotharin’s back. This was where he felt most at ease, feeling the land below him through the motion of a fine steed that knew his moods, his skills and his heart better than any other.

  They rode down the pathway towards the bridge, enjoying the gentle sway of their mounts and the clear air between them. As they crested the bridge, Eldain felt closer to his brother than he had his entire life.

  “It feels good to be riding from Ellyr-Charoi with you, Eldain,” said Caelir. “Even if it must be to war.”

  Eldain nodded and rubbed Lotharin’s neck as a shiver of prescience made him look back over his shoulder.

  “I fear war is riding to us,” he said.

  Caelir shielded his eyes from the sunlight reflecting on the glittering peaks of the western mountains and the sparkle of magic at their summits. He followed Eldain’s gaze towards the cleft in the peaks where the Eagle Gate spanned the pass through the mountains. Thin trails of smoke marred the pale blue of the sky, but it was to the cloud of dust that his eyes were drawn.

  “Riders,” said Caelir. “How many do you think?”

  “Maybe three or four hundred,” replied Eldain. “They are not druchii.”

  “No,” agreed Caelir. “But whoever they are, they are riding at speed.”

  “From the Eagle Gate, do you think?”

  “They must be,” said Caelir. “And there can be only one reason why so many horsemen would ride swiftly from Eagle Pass.”

  Eldain nodded grimly, and they urged their mounts to greater speed as the pathway wound its way up the hillside towards the road to Tor Elyr. The road they followed was visible only as pale lines in the landscape; nothing so crude or mannish as stone formed the roads of Ulthuan. After an hour, the land levelled out, and Eldain saw the vast sweep of the landscape at a meeting of four roads that converged from the corners of Ellyrion. A tall waystone carved with interlocking circles and images of rearing horses rose from the confluence of the roads like an obsidian fang, and the air around it shimmered with agitation.

  “The stone is troubled,” noted Caelir.

  “Likely with good reason,” said Eldain, riding Lotharin in a tight circle around it.

  To the east, the glittering spires of Tor Elyr were visible as a shimmer of gold and silver against the brilliant blue of the bay in which it sat. A mist from the waters rolled out over the fields and outposts before the city, while to the south, a pall of dark cloud hung low over the landscape. Dancing lights shimmered on the northern horizon, like the glow that smeared the sky when the magic contained within the Annulii surged with vitality.

  The western road was known as the Aerie’s Path, and Eldain halted Lotharin at its edge as he awaited the arrival of the riders from the pass. It would not be long, for he had set their pace in order to reach the waystone just before them.

  Sure enough, the vanguard of the riders from Eagle Pass emerged from a forest of mountain firs. They saw Eldain and Caelir and spurred their mounts onwards.

  “Khaine’s blood,” swore Caelir as the mounted warriors approached. “They have ridden their mounts into the ground!”

  Eldain felt his brother’s anger and recognised it in himself. To treat a horse with such disrespect was inexcusable.

  He bit back on his own anger. “Be calm,” he said. “Your emotions are being amplified by the waystone’s magic.”

  “But those horses—”

  “Are not ours,” finished Eldain. “And you do not know from what these warriors ride.”

  Caelir said nothing, but urged Irenya away from the waystone, letting his emotions become less volatile. The first warrior rode towards Eldain and raised a h
and in greeting.

  “Are you from Arandir Swiftwing?” he demanded.

  “I am not,” said Eldain. “I am Eldain Éadaoin, lord of Ellyr-Charoi. This is my brother, Caelir.”

  “You have not come from Tor Elyr?”

  “No. It is to Tor Elyr that we ride. Have you come from the Eagle Gate?”

  The rider nodded. “We have,” he said breathlessly. “Or what is left of it. The fortress is taken, and the druchii are marching on the Inner Kingdoms.”

  Though Eldain had known that could be the only reason these warriors would ride with such recklessness, it was still a shock to hear that one of Caledor’s great mountain fastnesses had fallen to the druchii.

  “Are you the commanding officer?” he asked.

  “I am now,” said the rider. “Menethis of Lothern. Adjutant to Glorien Truecrown, who was slain by a traitor in our own ranks, a vile serpent known as Alathenar.”

  “Slain by one of your own?” hissed Caelir, riding in from the shadow of the waystone.

  “If you can believe such a thing,” said Menethis. “Barely three hundred of us remain.”

  “Why did you ask if we were from Arandir Swiftwing?” asked Eldain. “You were expecting reinforcements from the lord of Tor Elyr?”

  “So said the last missive we received,” agreed Menethis. “His general, Galadrien Stormweaver, was marching to our relief.”

  “We have seen nothing of any relief force,” said Eldain. “But we have only just ridden from our villa.”

  “Then join us in heading east,” implored Menethis. “For the west is lost.”

  Caelir leaned in towards Eldain. “Most of the warriors of Ellyrion will have gone to Lothern. If Lord Swiftwing has raised an army, it will be the citizen levy only.”