03 - Caledor Read online

  The prince sat on his throne and paused; the councillors leaned forwards in their seats, anxious to hear what he had to say next, their eyes fixed upon Caledrian.

  “For years we have heard of an unsettling rise in the open worship of the cytharai,” he continued. “Each of us knows tales from the other kingdoms of some of the depravities involved in these rituals, and I am thankful to acknowledge that such practices have not encroached upon Caledor. It is Bel Shanaar’s suspicion, and I share it, that these cults are under the sway of Nagarythe. More specifically, that they owe allegiance to Morathi. We are not content to allow this state of affairs to remain unchanged.

  “If it is the intent of this council, we shall answer the summons of Bel Shanaar to attend to his court at Tor Anroc, there to discuss what action will be taken. As many of you know, I had already made plans for noble Imrik to act on my behalf, and the greater urgency that now faces us only strengthens my belief in that decision.”

  Caledrian looked to Imrik for a moment and then returned his gaze to the council members.

  “It is not his will nor mine that Imrik will carry with him, but the will of this council,” said Caledrian. “No proposal for action has been put forward by Bel Shanaar and I have heard nothing of the desires of the other princes. Thus Caledor will, as in times past, take the lead in this matter. With due respect to the wisdom of the council, it is my belief that the kingdoms must unite in purpose and in arms and destroy these cults wherever they are found. There are those that see no need for action and there are some that even support these cults in secret. We must root out those in thrall to Morathi and bring them before the judgement of the Phoenix King.”

  “Why stop there?” said Dorien. There were mutters of annoyance and scowls from the rest of the council; it was not proper form to speak before being invited by the ruling prince. Dorien paid no heed to the whispers of irritation. “You say it yourself that Nagarythe is the source of this menace. Malekith has abandoned his kingdom and allowed it to fall into barbarism and hedonism. We all know that Morathi is not to be trusted. I say that we subject Nagarythe to the rule of the Phoenix King until Malekith returns; if he ever does. Too long have we allowed our cousins in the north their wayward practices. It is time they were brought to account for it, and stability restored.”

  There were nods of agreement from many in the council, and a few members clapped softly or slapped a hand to thigh in appreciation. Imrik agreed with the sentiment, but knew that any direct action against Nagarythe would be tantamount to invasion. He was inclined to believe Caledrian did not desire to go so far, and was certain that Bel Shanaar would never endorse such a thing unless given extreme provocation. Imrik saw no reason to comment, knowing that the council would decide regardless of his opinion on the matter.

  Several council members indicated their willingness to speak, Hotek amongst them. The priest received a word from Caledrian and stood up, hands behind his back. He took a few paces towards the throne, and as dictated by convention addressed his thoughts to the ruling prince, though his words were for the whole council.

  “I am wary of any persecution of these cults,” said Hotek, his voice soft and melodious. “Not because I support them, but because we risk escalating isolated violence into a greater strife. I deplore these base rites as much as any of you, and know that for each disturbing story there is possibly another fouler act committed unseen. Unless proof can be presented that these cults are acting in concert, that the hand of Morathi controls them, it would be unwise to raise up arms against our own people. My sect once provided Aenarion and your forefathers with weapons to free this isle from death; we will not provide them to be used against those we are sworn to protect. For the most part these are simple people, not corrupt of heart but misguided or simply indolent and bored. Bel Shanaar has allowed this circumstance to arise by his inaction, it is true, but it would be foolish to over react. It is not too late to allow peace to prevail.”

  “A sentiment we all share,” said Caledrian. “Yet we cannot allow this depravity of spirit to fester any longer. Only by stern efforts have we kept Caledor free of the cults’ taint; others have not been so successful. The other kingdoms are uncertain in their power, unwilling to do what is necessary to bring Ulthuan back from the brink of disorder. We must take a lead where others have shirked their duties.”

  “Perhaps if we could speak with Tirathanil?” suggested Eltaranir, one of the oldest members of the council, whom Imrik considered as an uncle. He had been a close friend of Imrik’s father, Menieth; they had attended the First Council together when Bel Shanaar had been chosen to succeed Aenarion, and it had been Eltaranir that had borne Menieth’s body back from the colonies when he had been slain in the wars of conquest.

  Caledrian waved to the Phoenix King’s herald to come forwards. Tirathanil did so with a slight swagger, pleased with the sudden attention. His pomposity deflated under Eltaranir’s scrutiny.

  “There is little I can add that your prince has not already told you,” said the herald. “Yet I will endeavour to answer any questions you have.”

  “Has Bel Shanaar received any news of Malekith?” asked Hotek. “It is dubious to discuss the kingdom of another prince when he cannot represent himself.”

  “The Phoenix King knows nothing more of Malekith than any of you,” said Tirathanil. “That he still lives is likely, and continues his exploration of the northern wastes. As for representation, Nagarythe it was that severed ties to Tor Anroc, despite several attempts by myself and others to make embassy to them. If Morathi still rules, she does not answer the Phoenix King’s invitations to court.”

  “If she still rules?” Thyrinor pounced on the turn of phrase. “Why should she not?”

  “There is rumour of infighting amongst the Naggarothi,” admitted Tirathanil. “How extensive or violent it is, we do not know. It is the Phoenix King’s assessment that in Malekith’s long absence, the princes of Nagarythe struggle for power.”

  “Perhaps we should aid whoever seeks to overthrow Morathi,” suggested a voice from the council.

  “An outrageous suggestion!” said Eltaranir. “To meddle so in the rulership of one kingdom is to invite dissent in every kingdom. It is only through our pacts of noninterference that we are able to govern as befits each realm. We must be wary of every accusation levelled at Nagarythe. Many princes are jealous of the Naggarothi power and would take opportunity to undermine it. We are not free of such envy; would you have every scurrilous rumour and accusation made against Caledor used as an excuse to pry into our lives?”

  The council member who had spoken sat down with a chagrined expression. More than a dozen other elves raised their hands to be acknowledged and a background of whispering began. Caledrian called each in turn to speak, though they added little that was meaningful to the discussion, which went on through the afternoon. Imrik listened to each speech intently, seeking to solidify his own feelings on the matter. His instinct was to act quickly and decisively, but as he heard proposal and objection, his certainty wavered.

  By the time the sky was darkening beyond the high windows, Imrik felt ready to speak. He shifted in his chair and caught Caledrian’s eye. When the next opportunity presented itself, Caledrian nodded to Imrik.

  The prince stood, thumbs hooked into his broad belt. He looked first at Dorien, and then at the rest of the council. The hall was quiet, the private discussions fading away as Imrik turned to Caledrian. Not once had any objection been raised to his appointment as ambassador, and every elf was keen to hear his personal view on the issues.

  “We must fight,” said Imrik. He raised a hand for silence as protests echoed around the chamber. “We cannot attack Nagarythe. No prince can send his warriors into the lands of another without permission. Bel Shanaar must broker an agreement between the kingdoms. Each shall provide forces to the Phoenix King, which will operate under his authority alone. Every kingdom will be purged in turn. Those cultists that repent their associations with the cythara
i and desire clemency will receive it. Those that oppose the will of the princes will be imprisoned, or slain if they resist with violence.”

  Imrik sat down again.

  Silence followed as each elf digested this plan. Caledrian was deep in thought on his throne, his advisors whispering to him.

  “Do you think Bel Shanaar will agree?” Imrik asked Tirathanil. All eyes turned on the herald, awaiting his reply.

  “In principle, yes,” said Tirathanil. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I think you will find some support amongst the other princes. With Caledor’s support, they will be able to sway the opinion of those that are less committed.”

  Caledrian stood up, signalling to Tirathanil to withdraw behind the throne. The prince crossed his arms and swept his gaze slowly around the circle of elves.

  “We have a proposal to vote upon, as composed by Imrik,” said Caledrian. “Make your decision known. I suspend my right of view in this matter. If the council endorses this course of action, it will be final.”

  A few elves stood immediately, supporting Imrik’s plan. There was some conversation and shuffling, and then the others rose to their feet until only Hotek was left seated. The priest of Vaul smiled and nodded at Imrik, and stood up.

  “The vote is unanimous,” declared Caledrian. A self-congratulatory murmur rippled around the ring of council members. The ruling prince looked at Imrik. “Tirathanil returns to Tor Anroc tomorrow, brother. Can you leave that soon?”

  Imrik considered his options. He had no desire for the negotiations his plan would require, and in the short time he had been in Tor Caled he had made efforts to reconcile with Anatheria and make himself better known to Tythanir. It would take some time for other princes to answer Bel Shanaar’s call and the wait would be arduous. He could imagine himself kicking his heels in the Phoenix King’s palace, forced to pass the time with the Tiranocii nobility in endless banquets and galas.

  Yet it would be improper to remain idle in Tor Caled when he had important duties to attend.

  “No point waiting,” he said. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

  The number of princes, nobles and envoys tested the capacity of the Phoenix King’s palace, which was one of the largest buildings in Ulthuan. Imrik and Thyrinor, having taken ship along the coast of the Inner Sea to Ellyrion and then ridden westwards to Tor Anroc through the Annulii Mountains, found the city bustling; claustrophobic compared to the colonies and Tor Caled.

  Imrik was silently grateful for the fact that the Caledorian entourage, which included a handful of scribes and servants in addition to the princes, was accommodated in one of the houses in the centre of the city rather than within the palace itself. This gave Imrik some of the solitude he required, and the events of the first few days of the visit sent the prince into isolated retreat several times.

  There were so many people to meet, so many introductions, ceremonies and feasts, Imrik was wholly reliant upon Thyrinor to remember who everybody was and where he was supposed to be. More delegations arrived each day, adding to Imrik’s sense of bewilderment. It appeared that many of the attendants did not understand the gravity of the occasion, and saw the convening of the Phoenix King’s court as an opportunity to extend their usual festivities and politics. On uncertain ground, Imrik had held his tongue on a number of occasions, advised by Thyrinor to hold his patience and not unduly antagonise anybody; a feat Imrik found difficult, since most elves found his taciturn nature bordering on insult in itself.

  There were fewer princes present than Imrik had hoped. Many of the eastern kingdoms had sent ambassadors instead; though they professed to speak and act with the authority of the princes, Imrik could not treat with them as equals as any assurances they made would have to be ratified later by their masters. It meant that the whole business of discussing the growing problems of the cultists and the situation in Nagarythe descended into petty wrangles and interminable discussions about the exact phrasing of a proposal or the true meaning of another delegate’s words.

  A few princes had made the journey, and Imrik found them to be of a generally more tolerable nature than the other attendants. In particular, he found Thyriol of Saphery to be calm and wise amongst the tumult, and had considerable respect for the mage who had learnt his mystical arts under the tutelage of Imrik’s grandfather. Finudel and Athielle, joint rulers of Ellyrion, were also pleasant company. Though both displayed disarming humour and quick wit, they were ever conscious of the importance of the council.

  Imrik had spent some time with these three elves listening to their opinions on Nagarythe and voicing the proposal of Caledor to form a united army under the banner of the Phoenix King. Other than a perfunctory greeting when he had arrived, Imrik had spent no time discussing his views with Bel Shanaar, but on the sixth day of the council, he was due to speak before the Phoenix King.

  He met with Thyrinor and Thyriol beforehand, and brought up his uncertainty at expressing his plans in a way that would meet favour with the Phoenix King.

  “I am not eloquent,” Imrik admitted as the three princes drank fruit juices in the gardens of Imrik’s adopted house. Autumn cloud and sun mingled overhead, bathing the immaculate lawn in periods of warmth and shade, while birds and bees flitted about the carefully maintained hedges and trees. “I am too abrupt. Bel Shanaar will think I am telling him what to do.”

  “Perhaps you should phrase your proposals as questions, cousin,” said Thyrinor, reclining on a white stone bench beside a shallow pool of clear water. Bubbles broke the pond as jade-scaled fish swam lazily just under the surface, their bodies glinting. “Lead Bel Shanaar to come to the answers you wish him to.”

  “That is not a gift I have,” said Imrik. “I was never a good student of rhetoric.”

  “Do not be overly concerned by your mannerisms,” Thyriol assured him. Dressed in a rich yellow and gold robe, the Sapherian mage sat in the shade beneath a tree, eyes closed. “You do not know Bel Shanaar well, but he is well versed in statecraft and will listen not to your words but to your message. It was with some personal difficulty that he has gathered the council. He has critics, and there are those willing to say the Phoenix King is too weak to act on his own.”

  “No doubt those whispers were first formed on the lips of Morathi and her lackeys,” said Thyrinor. “Even in the colonies, there has been quiet but constant campaign against Bel Shanaar; ever with the assumption that Malekith should have been chosen instead.”

  “Let them grumble,” said Imrik. “My father had as much claim as the Dragontamer’s successor. Caledor has no love for the Phoenix King, but I will give Bel Shanaar the respect he earns.”

  “Grumbles may seem unimportant to you, but every rumour and snippet is valuable here,” warned Thyriol, opening his eyes. “Even you must be aware that as unpopular as the Naggarothi are, the Caledorians are not high in the affections of the other kingdoms. Your dragons scare them.”

  “So they should,” said Imrik. “It is not Caledor’s fault if they have strength when other kingdoms allow themselves to be weak.”

  “They are not as weak as they once were,” said Thyrinor. “The port of Lothern in Eataine is becoming one of the largest cities in Ulthuan, and her fleet dwarfs ours. Cothique and Yvresse have outposts all over the world. Even gentle Saphery, our companion’s kingdom, is renowned for the skill and power of her mages. We cannot rely upon the dragons for eternity. Only a handful remain that do not sleep beneath the mountains, and it will not be long before they too choose to slumber.”

  “Which is why we’re here,” said Imrik. “The Phoenix King alone can harness that strength.”

  “But will he be willing?” Thyrinor directed the question to the mage.

  “Bel Shanaar is concerned, but not desperate,” replied Thyriol. “Your proposal has merit that he will see, but if it is not the desire of the other kingdoms, he will not give your plan his backing.”

  “Your voice would lend weight to our argument,” said Thyrinor. “Not only as the pr
ince of Saphery, but as one who elevated Bel Shanaar to Phoenix King.”

  “There is some truth to that,” said Thyriol, smiling faintly. “Bel Shanaar and I fought against the daemons under Aenarion, and there are few left who can claim such an achievement.”

  “We should go now,” said Imrik, glancing up at the sun. Noon was approaching, the appointed hour for his audience with the Phoenix King. “I would not keep Bel Shanaar waiting.”

  The corridors of the outer palace were comparatively quiet; it had been made known that the Phoenix King had set aside the whole day for representations of the princes present, with no lesser agents permitted. There were bows and words of deference to Thyriol from the few other elves they met, and platitudes offered to Imrik, as the princes made their way to the main hall of the palace.

  Though they were early, Bel Shanaar’s chamberlain, Palthrain, was waiting for them at the hall doors.

  Palthrain bowed in greeting and offered a few pleasantries.

  “Is Bel Shanaar receiving audience yet?” asked Imrik.

  “Enter when you wish,” said Palthrain. “The Phoenix King lends his ear to Athielle and Finudel presently, but they have made it known you are welcome to join the discussion.”

  Imrik took a breath and nodded to Palthrain, who signalled for the attendants to open the doors. The hall beyond was vast, its roof held up by slender pillars inscribed with golden runes, the ceiling cunningly painted to represent a spring sky, lit from dozens of arched windows.

  At the far end, Bel Shanaar sat upon a throne wrought in the shape of a phoenix, wings outspread. A long cloak of white feathers draped over the throne from his shoulders, hemmed with a band of golden thread and hung with sapphires. The Phoenix King wore formal robes layered in white and gold, delicately embroidered with silver swirls of flame and glittering runes. Elves showed little sign of age, no matter how ancient, and Bel Shanaar’s face was only faintly lined despite his centuries of existence. He did not wear the elaborate Phoenix Crown; instead his pale blond hair was swept back with a golden band decorated with a single emerald at his forehead. His eyes were bright blue, alert as Athielle spoke, her voice quiet but carrying along to Imrik by the perfect acoustics of the hall.