Master of Dragons

Chapter Four

Lothern was not the oldest of the dwellings of the asur, nor the wisest, nor the most steeped in the thrum and harmony of magic, but it was the most magnificent, the most imposing, the most martial, the most sprawlingly and gloriously worldly.

Clusters of bone-white spires soared into the air, each reflected in the deep green of the lagoon that lapped before them. Immense statues of the gods stared out across the waters, their golden faces cast in expressions of austere superiority. Crystal coronets shimmered under the glare of strong sunlight and the sky blazed a clear blue, washed clean by the rain squalls and now as pure as a mage’s spyglass. A thousand aromas rose from cargo heaped high on quaysides, and every crate, barrel and sackcloth was branded with the esoteric mark of far-off realms and colonies.

The royal fleet lay at anchor in the glassy lagoon. Each warship had been decked out in red and gold, their sails furled and their pennants rippling in the breeze. Mail-clad troops lined every thoroughfare, and their chainmail sparkled.

The waterfront rang with boisterous celebration. Crowds thronged along the long quayside, pushing past one another to gain position. All eyes looked up at the greatest spire of them all — the truly colossal Phoenix Tower, rearing up sheer above the water’s edge, its flanks as pure as ivory and its crystal windows flashing in the sun.

Caledor II stood on the Tower’s ceremonial balcony, a clear hundred feet from ground level, and drank the vista in. The acclamation of his people made his heart swell. Adulation was good for him. It vindicated everything he had done since setting sail from the same quayside six years ago.

They worship me, he thought, gripping the marble railing with silver-edged gauntlets. Just as they worshipped my father, they worship me.

Seldom had so many of the fleet’s eagleships been concentrated in one place. The fortified cliffs that surrounded them, all bristling with turrets and banners, added to the sense of excess, of overflowing command, of invulnerability.

Nothing in the colonies would ever compare to Ulthuan, not even if the asur laboured there for a thousand years. Nothing would ever shine so vividly, or be filled with as much vivacity, or give harbour to so many of the Phoenix King’s dread vessels of war.

Lothern was the heart of the fleet; thus, Lothern was the heart of power.

‘Good to be back, my liege?’ asked Hulviar, standing beside Caledor on the balcony. The seneschal wore his ceremonial armour, piped with gold filigree and lines of inlaid jewels.

‘I can breathe this air without gagging,’ replied Caledor, waving at the crowds below. Every movement he made seemed to elicit fresh cheers. ‘My boots are free of mud. Best of all…’ He smiled contently. ‘No dwarfs.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Hulviar with feeling. ‘So will you address them now? They have been waiting a long time.’

Caledor gazed out indulgently. He felt reluctant to do anything to break the spell of massed veneration. Kingship was in large a matter of theatre, of display, and moments such as these were priceless.

Still, though. They wouldn’t wait forever. ‘Sound the clarion.’

Hulviar motioned to an attendant in the shadows. A moment later a fanfare rang out, cutting across the water and stilling the crowd to an expectant hush.

‘I will be heard by them all?’ whispered Caledor.

‘The mages are prepared,’ said Hulviar. ‘Speak as comes naturally, my liege; the deafest of them will hear as if they were alone with you.’

Caledor placed both hands on the railing and pushed his shoulders back. He knew full well how resplendent he looked — artisan-fashioned armour of ithilmar and silver, a heavy cloak of sky-blue, long blond hair pulled back from his brow by the winged crown of the Phoenix Kings.

‘My people!’ he cried, and they cheered again. Soldiers along the terraces clashed their blades against their shields, sending an echoing wave of noise rolling across the lagoon.

Caledor couldn’t prevent a fresh smile. The occasion called for dignity, but he was enjoying himself too much.

‘My people,’ he said again, waiting for the hubbub to die down. ‘I return to you at the start of a new dawn for Ulthuan. Not since Aenarion’s time have we known such victory. The druchii fall back under our relentless onslaught. The Witch King cowers in his frozen land, knowing his fate draws ever closer.’

That brought heartfelt cheers. Every soul gathered below would have lost someone to druchii raids; hatred for Malekith never needed to be stoked.

‘But I need not tell you this — you know the truth of it. I come here this day to tell of victory in the east, for we have triumphed! We have triumphed over the mountain-folk. The stunted creatures of Elthin Arvan are defeated, and I myself, Caledor the Second, slew the son of their High King in single combat.’

Hulviar reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a shrivelled, stinking hunk of dried flesh. He handed it to the King, who lifted it up for all to see.

‘They called him “Halfhand”,’ said Caledor, swinging the trophy from side to side as if it were a piece of meat brought back from the hunt. ‘No longer — I call him “No-hand”!’

Snorri Halfhand’s severed hand, cut from his arm at the wrist before the remnant had been thrown away, dangled from Caledor’s grasp. The grey flesh was a mess of black, dried blood, the fingers little more than maimed stumps. At the sight of it the crowd burst into contemptuous laughter.

‘They came to this realm and I cut off their beards,’ Caledor went on, revelling in the reception. ‘They did not take that lesson well, so I went to their realm and cut off their hands. When will they learn? Will we have to slice off every extremity, one by one?’

More laughter.

‘So much for this War of the Beards!’ Caledor said, flinging the severed hand back at Hulviar. ‘The stunted ones dared to challenge their betters, and thus have been bloodied. They will think twice before assaulting our colonies again. Should they now sue for peace and come before me on their knees, we shall be magnanimous. But if they dare, if they dare, to rise up against us again, we shall visit vengeance on them a thousandfold.’

Laughter was replaced by roars of approval.

‘We shall root them out of their holes and drag them into the sunlight,’ Caledor promised, warming to his theme. ‘We shall burn their mines and flood their holds. We shall seize their goods and make prisoners of their wives — though what use one might have for such creatures, I have little idea.’

More laughter, crude this time.

‘So I tell you: rejoice! Rejoice in the valour of our legions, in the strength of our fleets, in the matchless spellcraft of our mages. No force of the world can stand against us. First will the dawi fall, then the druchii, just as any power must fall that sets itself against the chosen ones, the children of Aenarion!’

The cheering was thunderous.

‘From henceforth, this day shall be known as the Day of the Severing. It shall mark our crushing of the dawi in their own domains. Until the sun sets, do no work. Drink wine, feast well, revel in your leisure: you have laboured hard in the years since my father’s death, now take your ease and bask in the glory of his son’s accomplishments.’

He leaned forward, stretching out his fists.

‘I told you that a new dawn has broken over Ulthuan,’ he cried. ‘It shines on the reign of Caledor the Second.’

That brought the loudest cheers of all. Soldiers resumed their shield-clanging salute; whole bunches of flowers were hurled up at the tower’s stonework. Caledor basked in it all, smiling benignly, waving regally, before finally, just as the prepared casks of strong wine were opened along the waterfront, withdrawing from the balcony’s edge.

He passed into a gilt-and-mirror chamber to the rear, followed by Hulviar. The cheers from the quayside went on and on, persisting even after glass-paned doors were closed against the noise.

‘That went well,’ said Caledor, taking the crown from his brow and handing it to a waiting attendant.

Hulviar drew the strings tight on the bag containing Snorri’s hand and dangled it with distaste. ‘What do you wish me to do with this, my liege?’

Caledor pulled his gauntlets free and discarded them. ‘Whatever you will. Feed it to your swine, throw it into the sea, I care not.’

Hulviar gave him an uncertain look. ‘You know, of course, that his father still lives? And his cousin? They’re sure to seek vengeance.’

‘Of course. They shall meet the same fate.’

‘Our lords in Elthin Arvan are not so sure. They make requests for more arms. They are worried.’

‘What would they have me do? Go back again? Nursemaid them?’

Hulviar leaned closer. Aside from a couple of attendants who knew how to keep their eyes and ears to themselves, the chamber was empty; even so, he kept his voice low. ‘Far from it. You have already been away six years, and that is a long time for the throne to be empty. You know how these things work, my liege: the court grows restive without a strong hand to guide it.’

‘Is this a lecture coming?’ asked Caledor, irritably. The address had been a triumph; he had no desire to be dragged back into intrigue, something of which there seemed to be an infinite supply in Lothern. ‘If so, make it short.’

‘Your homecoming has been a success, my liege,’ said Hulviar. ‘Your position is strengthened, but you are not the only popular name in Ulthuan. Before you returned there was another on the lips of the rabble.’

‘Imladrik.’

‘Your brother has won renown against the druchii — they have no answer to his dragons. Some whisper that he would wear the crown well, too.’

‘Who whispers this?’

‘No names, my liege, just rumours. But they persist.’

Caledor shot Hulviar a flinty look. ‘My brother has no ambition for the throne. Anyone who knows him would tell you that.’

‘Just so, but that — if you will forgive my saying so — is neither here nor there. Others can use Imladrik whether he wishes them to or no.’ Hulviar’s face was almost apologetic. ‘Your brother is the greatest dragon rider of our age, but no statesman. He can be made into a figurehead.’

The beginnings of a scowl formed on Caledor’s smooth brow. The joy of his homecoming felt soured, and that darkened his mood. Even now, just at the moment of triumph, the tangled skeins of his family history were ripe to pollute it all. ‘Then he must be sent away again,’ he muttered. ‘He professed to love the colonies; he can mire himself in war there.’

Hulviar nodded, looking satisfied. ‘A judicious course, but he will not go willingly. He has taken up residence in Tor Vael.’

‘Tor Vael,’ said Caledor, scornfully. ‘His dreary wife’s tower. So unalike, those two.’

Hulviar shrugged, as if to say, what can one do? ‘He seems to find it amenable.’

‘He has had the run of it for too long. I shall send messages there. He will not refuse an order.’

‘Indeed he will not, but I understand he is not there: he goes to commune with the drakes. Perhaps it would be best to meet him in person, in Kor Evril.’

Caledor shook his head with irritation. ‘I love my brother, Hulviar, but the age of the dragons was drawing to a close even before our great-grandsire walked the mountains. He would do better to devote himself to his own kind.’

Hulviar smiled. ‘As you have done, my liege.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Caledor, already preoccupied by the arrangements he would have to make to secure his position. ‘See that all this is put in motion, Hulviar. Your advice spoils my mood, but I see the sense of it.’

‘It shall be done,’ said Hulviar, bowing smoothly.

Sevekai loped along, keeping his head low. Drutheira, Malchior and Ashniel went ahead, guided by their flickering staffs. The tunnels wound their way tortuously up through the mountain’s core, worming like maggot-trails in rotten meat. It was hot, dust-choked and treacherous underfoot, but the druchii went as surely as night-ghouls, never pausing, never missing a footing.

So Drutheira had known Kaitar was tainted. She’d kept the knowledge to herself, as close and devious as ever. Sevekai admired that. He admired her perfect calmness in the cause of deception, the effortless way she discarded those who blocked her path back to Naggaroth. He wondered whether the day would come when she tried to dispatch him, too. That would be an interesting challenge, a potentially enjoyable test. Drutheira was powerful, for sure, but he had tricks of his own, some of which he’d kept secret even from her.

He noticed light growing around him. The purple flickers of witch-fire died out, replaced by a thin grey film on the stone. They were jogging up steeply now, angled hard against the heavy press of heart-rock.

‘Stay close,’ warned Drutheira. ‘The dragon flies.’

The tunnel opened up around them. Sevekai caught sight of its entrance — a jagged-toothed mouth, opening out on to a screen of grey.

They ran for it, emerging into the pale light of an overcast day.

They were on another ledge, high on the shoulder of a narrow gorge. Vast, blunt peaks crowded around them with their heads lost in mist. The Arluii mountains were always bleak and rain-shrouded.

Sevekai leaned against the cliff at his back, catching his breath. The ledge was not wide — a few yards at its broadest. To his left it wound higher up, clinging to the gorge-wall like throttle-wire. To his right it snaked down steeply and headed into the gloom of the gorge. Straight ahead was a plunge into nothing. Fronds of mist coiled over the lip of the brink, gusting softly in the chill wind.

‘So where is it?’ demanded Malchior, turning on Drutheira with a face like murder.

Drutheira looked at him irritably. ‘Give it time.’

‘We had it in our power,’ Malchior insisted. ‘Down there. Why did you-’

Before he could finish, a thin cry of anguish rang out over the gorge. They all looked up.

Far up, part-masked by cloud, the black dragon was on the wing. It flew awkwardly, as if flexing muscles that had been cramped for too long.

Sevekai let slip a low whistle. ‘Ugly wretch,’ he said.

Drutheira laughed. ‘Ugly as the night. But it’s ours.’

The dragon circled high above them, unwilling to come closer, unable to draw further away. Its screeches were hard to listen to.

Ashniel gazed up at it with the rest of them. ‘So what now?’

‘This road leads east,’ said Drutheira. ‘It will take time to break the beast. But when we do-’

She didn’t hear the wheezing until too late. None of them did, not even Sevekai whose ears were as sharp as a Cold One’s.

He burst out of the tunnel mouth, limping and bleeding with a blade in hand. Sevekai whirled around first, seeing him go for Drutheira. For a moment he thought it was Kaitar, then he saw Hreth’s familiar expression of loathing. Left for dead, somehow he’d clawed his way back up to the surface.

Hreth leapt at Drutheira, who was standing on the lip of the ledge. Sevekai pounced instinctively, catching him in mid-leap. The two of them tumbled across the rock. Sevekai felt blood splash over him from Hreth’s open wounds.

‘Kill it!’ cried Drutheira, but he couldn’t twist free to see what she was doing. Hreth’s fingers gouged at him, scrabbling for his eyes. Sevekai arched his spine, shifting Hreth’s weight, ready to push him away.

He caught a brief glimpse of Hreth’s face rammed up close to his own. It was just like Kaitar’s had been — dull-eyed, hollow, staring. Sevekai suddenly felt a horrific pain in his chest, as if something were sucking his soul from his body.

A wave of purple fire smashed across him, hot as coals. Hreth flew away from him, shrieking just as Kaitar had done. He crashed into the cliff face, burning with witch-light, before springing back at Sevekai.

Sevekai dropped down and darted to one side, but Hreth grabbed his tunic and dragged him to the brink. Another bolt of witch-light slammed into Hreth, propelling him over. With a terrible lurch, Sevekai realised he was going over too.

He tried to jerk back, to shake Hreth off him, to reach for something to grab on to, but it was no good — a final aethyr-bolt blasted Hreth clear, dragging Sevekai along in his wake.

For a moment he felt himself suspended over nothing. He saw Hreth’s maddened grimace, felt the spittle flying into his eyes.

‘Sevekai!’ he heard someone cry — it might have been Drutheira.

Then everything fell away. He tumbled through the void, breaking clear of Hreth and plummeting alone. He had a brief, awful impression of rock racing by him in a blur of speed, the wind snatching at his tunic and a howling in his ears.

Something hit him on the side of the head, rocking it and sending blood-whirls shooting across his eyes. After that he knew no more.

The highlands above Kor Evril had the look of a land cursed. Cairns of ebony littered the steep mountainsides. Little grew. The winds, as hard and biting as any of the Annulii, moaned across an empty stonescape, stirring up ash-like soil and sending it skirling across stone.

Only those of the bloodline of Caledor had learned to appreciate the Dragonspine’s stark rawness. Fissures opened up along the flanks of the high places, sending noxious fumes spewing into an unspoiled sky. Foul aromas pooled in the shadows, gathering in mist-shrouded crevasses and lurking over filmy watercourses. The air could be hot against the skin or as frigid as death, depending on which way the capricious wind blew. It was a land of extremes, a battleground of elemental earth, harsh air and raging ocean.

Imladrik stood before the cavern’s wide mouth, breathing heavily. His cheeks were flushed from the climb into the Dragonspine, his body lined with sweat. A stench of burning metal rose up from the charred soil. Kor Evril was far below, miles away, down in the fertile lands to the south-east. It had taken two days to reach the cavern, a long, painful slog on foot.

Now at his destination, his eyes shone. He felt invigorated. The sensations, the smells, the incessant low rumble of steam and wind — they were the things he had been born to. Something in his blood responded to it — he had always felt the same way, ever since his father had taken him into the peaks as a child.

‘This is the forge of our House,’ the great Imrik had told him. ‘This is where we were tempered. As the sea is to Eataine and the forests are to Avelorn, the fire-mountains are to Caledor. Forget this truth, and we lose ourselves.’

Imladrik had taken the words to heart, returning to the Dragonspine whenever he could. Even during times of warfare he had made the pilgrimage, renewing himself, reciting afresh the arcane vows he had made so long ago.

A dragon rider was a restless soul, condemned to rove the passages of the air for as long as the bond existed between steed and rider; if he had a home on earth, a true home, then it was the Dragonspine.

‘Such a thing has not been seen for many years,’ Imladrik said. ‘We are honoured, Thoriol.’

Imladrik’s travelling companion stood close by. Thoriol tended to his mother in looks, with pale colouring and slender frame. Only his eyes were the same as his father’s — emerald, like summer grass.

Thoriol said nothing. He looked doubtful, standing dutifully beside his father, the collar of his robe turned up against the heat rolling down from the cavern entrance.

‘I remember my first summoning,’ said Imladrik, lost in the memory. ‘We tell ourselves that we choose them, but of course they choose us. We are like swifts to them, our lives flitting across the path of theirs.’ He smiled broadly. ‘But who can tell? Who really understands them? That is the majesty of them: they are an enigma, an impossibility.’

Thoriol drew in a deep breath, wincing against the foul air. He looked paler than normal. ‘You are sure this is the place?’ he asked.

Imladrik put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘I have been watching this peak for ten years. When I saw the first signs, I thought of you. Others have been studying for longer, but — forgive my pride — I wanted you to have the honour. New blood is so rare.’

‘And if…’ Thoriol broke off. He looked nauseous. ‘And if it does not choose me?’

‘She,’ corrected Imladrik. ‘Can you not tell from the way the smoke rises? She is a queen of fire.’

Thoriol tried to calm himself. ‘I sense nothing. Nothing but this foul air.’

‘I taught you,’ said Imladrik proudly. ‘The songs will come. You have my blood in your veins, son. Take heart.’

Imladrik drew himself to his full height. He was clad in the silver armour he wore when riding Draukhain, embellished with a drake-winged helm and crimson cloak. The runes inlaid into the metal seemed to smoulder, as if aware they were close to the foundries where they had been made. Thoriol, wearing only brown acolyte’s robes, looked insubstantial.

Both of them carried swords. Imladrik bore Ifulvin, Thoriol an unnamed blade from the armoury. Once he became a rider it would be rune-engraved and named.

Imladrik raised his blade before him in a gesture of salute.

‘Soul of ancient earth!’ he cried. ‘Wake from sleep! Let your spirit rise, let your heart beat, let your eyes open.’

Thoriol mimicked his father’s movements. He shut his eyes, mouthing the words he had been taught in Kor Evril. A thin line of sweat broke out on his brow.

Imladrik felt the familiar thrill of power shudder through him. The cavern mouth gusted with fresh smoke, swirling and tumbling over the dark rocks.

You know my voice, he mind-sang. You sensed my presence in your long slumber. Come now, answer the call. I have been calling you since you first stirred. Listen. Awaken. Stir.

The gusts of smoke grew stronger. The air before the cavern entrance seemed to shimmer from sudden heat, and a low hiss emerged.

Thoriol held his ground. Imladrik heard him begin his own dragonsong, haltingly at first, then more assuredly. He had a clear voice; a little tremulous, perhaps, but greater command would come in time.

My will is before you, mind-sang Thoriol. Bind your will to mine. Our minds shall be joined, our powers merged. We shall become one mind, one power.

Imladrik felt his heart burn with pride. He remembered singing the same words, many years ago, just as nervous and uncertain as Thoriol was now. It was a momentous thing, to summon and bind a dragon. Once forged the link could never be broken; the names of a dragon rider and his steed ran down together in history: Aenarion and Indraugnir, Caledor Dragontamer and Kalamemnon, Imrik and Maedrethnir.

‘She approaches,’ Imladrik warned, maintaining the summoning charm but letting Thoriol’s voice take over the harmony of the song. ‘Do not waver now, I can feel her mind reaching out to yours — seize this moment.’

Thoriol kept singing. His words were clearly enunciated, echoing through the aethyr with perfect clarity. Our minds shall be joined. Our powers merged. One mind, one power.

The shadows at the cavern entrance shuddered, shook and were broken. A golden shape, sinuous and dully reflective, slid slowly into the shrouded sunlight. It uncurled itself, stretching out lazily, extending a curved neck atop which rested a sleek, horned head. A pair of golden wings unfurled, splayed out to expose rust-red membranes blotched with black streaks. Two filmy eyes opened, each slitted like a cat’s.

The dragon’s back arched. Like all her kind, she was massive — many times the height of the figures that stood before her. Her shadow fell across them, throwing down an acrid pall of hot air and embers.

Imladrik gazed up at her. She was magnificent. Though only half the size of the great Draukhain, she still bled that mix of raw potency and feral energy that was the truest mark of the dragon-breed. Her hide glistened as if new-forged metal. Her enormous heart, still sluggish from her long slumber, began to pulse more firmly.

Thoriol took a step closer, his blade raised. Imladrik could sense his trepidation. Every fibre of his being longed to help him, to ease the passage between them, but this was something Thoriol had to do for himself.

The stirring of a hot-blood, a Sun Dragon, was a rare thing, and such spirits were hard to tame. Though they couldn’t match the sheer power of the Star Dragons or the cool splendour of the Moon Dragons, they brought a wildness and vivacity that thrilled the heart of any true Caledorian. This one was young, perhaps no more than a few centuries. Imladrik could sense her fearlessness, her savagery.

At that instant, he knew her name: Terakhallia. The word burned on to his mind as if branded there.

Our powers merged. One mind, one power.

Thoriol’s mind-song continued. His voice became more powerful. Imladrik listened with pride. Terakhallia drew closer, taking cautious steps down the slope towards the young acolyte. Her great head lowered, bringing her jawline almost down to the level of Thoriol’s sword. For a moment the two of them stayed like that, locked in the mystical dragon-

song, bound by a symphony as old as the winds of magic.

One mind, one power.

Then, without warning, Terakhallia belched a gout of ink-black smoke, coiled her tail, and pounced into the air. The downdraft was tremendous, knocking Thoriol to his knees and nearly sending Imladrik reeling.

Thoriol cried aloud. The bond was cut.

‘Father!’ he gasped, instinctively, his blade clattering across the stones.

Imladrik recovered himself and watched, grimly, as the serpentine form rippled up into the heavens. Terakhallia’s golden body flashed in the sunlight. Her blood-red wings flexed, propelling her upwards like an arrow leaving the bowstring. It was over so quickly. Once aloft, a dragon moved as fast as a stormfront, thrusting powerfully on wings the size of a hawkship’s sails.

Imladrik felt his heart sink. For a moment longer he watched the Sun Dragon gain height. He had the power to call her back. If he chose, he could command her; alone of all the asur living, he could have summoned her back to earth.

But that would have been unforgivable. He would not do it, not even for his son.

Imladrik glanced at Thoriol. As he did so, catching the boy’s anguish, he felt a pang of remorse.

‘Why?’ asked Thoriol, standing up again with difficulty. ‘What did I do wrong?’

Imladrik shook his head. ‘Nothing, lad. They are wild spirits. Some answer, some do not. It has always been that way.’

Thoriol’s face creased with misery. The exertion of the dragonsong was considerable; he looked suddenly drained, his shoulders slumped, his blade discarded. ‘I knew it,’ he muttered. ‘It was too soon.’

Imladrik went over to him. He knew the pain of a severed link, of a bond that was not completed. ‘There will be others, son. Do not…’

‘You knew!’ cried Thoriol, his eyes wide with anger. ‘You knew. Why did you even bring me?’

Imladrik halted. ‘Nothing is certain. Dragons are not tame.’

‘Neither am I.’

Thoriol pushed past Imladrik, ignoring his lost sword and limping down the slope, away from the cavern entrance.

‘There are others!’ Imladrik called after him.

Thoriol kept on walking. Imladrik watched him go.

Was he too young? he asked himself. Did I push him too fast?

He went over to the sword and picked it up. The steel at its tip was scorched from Terakhallia’s fiery breath. The Sun Dragon was long gone, free on the mountain air. She would not return for many days, and when she did her soul would be even wilder, even harder to bond with.

Imladrik felt failure press on him. Perhaps their spirits had been misaligned. Perhaps the boy needed more time. Perhaps he himself was to blame.

He tried not to let himself consider the alternative, the possibility that burned away in his mind like a torturer’s blade: that Thoriol did not have the gift, that unless the fates granted Imladrik and Yethanial another child, mastery of dragons would die with him and the House of Tor Caled would never produce a rider again.

I could not live with that.

Moving slowly, his heart heavy, Imladrik began to walk. He would have to hurry to catch Thoriol; when the boy’s temper cooled, they would talk, discuss what had happened, learn from it.

Even as he thought it, though, he knew that the failure would change everything. Something new was needed, and he had no idea what it would be.

Imladrik shook his head, pushing against the ashen wind and picking up his pace. His mood of exhilaration had been doused; the descent to Kor Evril would be harder than the climb.