Beyond the Mists of Katura

Chapter 3

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?’

‘ENOUGH!’ Belphamun’s voice shivered the air. Fires guttered and spat. ‘Are we children squabbling over scraps? How long have we lived, how long have we survived, how much power do we wield only to bicker like women over grain?’

Ystormun hunched back into his chair while the echoes of Belphamun’s voice faded against the stone walls of the Hexerion. Across the table from him, Pamun’s fingertips were pressed hard together and sparks of mana played across his nails.

‘Errors have been made,’ continued Belphamun. ‘Our gambit for Dawnthief has failed. The elves might be aware of our plans. Are these mortal blows? Focus, brothers, on our next actions. Actions we must execute without error.’

‘The march towards dominion of this dimension is in hand,’ said Arumun, waving a hand dismissively.

‘Plainly not,’ said Belphamun. ‘Or, if it is, it is a fragile and shaking hand. Here is what must be done-’

‘Have I missed something?’ Weyamun rested his ancient arms on the table. ‘I had not understood you to be the speaker of the cadre.’

Ystormun felt Belphamun’s weary anger deepening.

‘Each of us knows that we are all equal within the walls of this chamber,’ said Belphamun. Ystormun had to bite back a bitter retort. ‘I will, with your permission — ’ and frost from his fingers rimed the table ‘- put forth my opinion for you to challenge should you feel so inclined.’

Weyamun actually growled, and the smell of mana fire came from within his pale grey robes, but he said nothing. Ystormun steepled his fingers and settled back more comfortably into his chair, considering where he might seek allies when the time came.

‘Forget Dawnthief. Accelerate the unification of the tribes, drive the shamen harder and invade before our enemies can ready themselves. Remember that for all our weaknesses they have been weakened too, and they do not have the resources we enjoy. Nor do they understand the magnitude of our powers.

‘And because they must not gain allies, we must snuff out the elven threat as a matter of urgency. Ystormun, I remain confident you can meet this challenge. Or does another wish to come to his aid?’

Ystormun laughed into the silence. ‘For all your vitriol, you have not a single spine between you.’

‘I will oversee your efforts,’ said Pamun. ‘But I will not stand by your side.’

‘Oversee? Look to your own problems, Pamun. Why aren’t the lords of every tribe awaiting us in the rotunda? Where are the legions of shamen to lead our tide of destruction?’ Ystormun turned to Belphamun and met his gaze. ‘We all have our tasks, brother. Leave me to complete mine.’

‘Do not fail us again,’ said Belphamun.

‘Nor you us.’

Belphamun bridled. ‘I have not-’

‘You have no idea if Dawnthief is ours, is lost or rests in the hands of Xetesk.’

‘My agents are in the field as we speak.’

‘But they have not found an answer, and so we are vulnerable. Hence you have failed. I accept the shortcomings of certain of my actions, brother. Why don’t you?’

Ystormun pushed back his chair and stood.

‘There is much to be done,’ he said, feeling the weight of their combined hatred like a collar around his neck. ‘Sadly, the elves will not exterminate themselves.’

‘A shame since that appears to be your brightest hope,’ said Arumun.

‘You possess so much bitterness, Arumun,’ said Ystormun. ‘It blights what would otherwise be the delightfully pathetic collection of bile, bigotry and ignorance making up your character.’

‘Ystormun,’ said Pamun. ‘The business of the Hexerion is not yet done. And we all must have the opportunity to comment on Belphamun’s ideas. And you shall listen, Brother. And hear how success sounds. Sit.’

Ystormun bit his lip. With the eyes of the cadre on him he had no choice but to lose face. He sat. Giriamun chuckled.

‘Error upon error,’ he hissed.

Pamun’s eyes closed briefly. His door opened and the stench of Wesman flooded the chamber. Weyamun gestured his displeasure with a flap of a hand in front of his nose. Giriamun coughed.

‘Could you not have had it bathed?’

‘Come, Sentaya. Stand among us. Show us your faith,’ said Pamun.

The man walked forward to stand between Pamun and Weyamun. He was shaven-headed, dressed in warm woollen clothes and his shoulders were draped in a lined cloak. He was of average height and appeared past his physical peak though his neck was still thick with muscle.

Ystormun could not see his face until the Wesman leaped on to the table and turned a slow circle, taking them all in. It was weathered, tanned dark, scarred and flat. His eyes were brown, defiant and hard. He displayed no fear.

‘My name is Sentaya. I am lord of the Paleon tribes and rightful lord of all the tribes of the Wes.’ He continued to turn his slow circle. ‘My faith is in my gods and in the strength of my arms. It is in the blood coursing through my veins and the veins of every man of Wes. We seek to destroy a common enemy. Without me, you cannot unite the tribes and bring them to the gates of the colleges in numbers that will break them. Without you, we cannot be certain of defeating their magic.

‘But we are not your servants. I am not your slave. It shall always be this way.’

Sentaya stopped turning and stared at Pamun. Ystormun could see the fury in the Wytch Lord’s face. He smiled as dark sparks flashed in Pamun’s palms.

‘We are your masters,’ said Pamun. ‘Your lives are in our hands to be snuffed out as and when we choose.’

Sentaya shrugged. ‘I do not fear death. But you surely fear being exiled here for eternity.’

Ystormun stood once more.

‘So this is success? We have discovered a whole new definition. Well met, Sentaya, lord of the Paleon. And now, with or without your permission, brothers, I am leaving. There is work to be done.’