Blood of Aenarion

chapter eleven



‘You are in a different world now,’ said Malene. She glanced around to make sure the door was shut and spoke a Word. Tyrion felt as if the lightest of breezes had passed over him. Teclis cocked his head to one side, suddenly intensely curious. ‘There are some things you need to know and some words that need to be spoken plainly.’

‘And you are going to speak them,’ said Teclis.

‘I am, and I will thank you not to use your haughty tone with me, Prince Teclis. I like you but I expect you to treat me with the same respect I extend to you. We are not on the ship any more, not on a journey. Things are more formal here.’ She sounded almost as if she regretted that fact.

Teclis looked surprised, not so much at her manner but by the admission she liked him. He was not used to that. He smiled, suddenly looking very young and intensely vulnerable.

‘You are guests in this house. I would ask you, Tyrion, to remember that. Some of your cousins are at a dangerous age and you are a very handsome youth. I am sure you will find plenty of opportunities for amorous adventure outwith the confines of your immediate kinswomen.’

‘I’ll try and remember that,’ he said.

‘You would do well to do so. Your grandfather does not like the harmony of his household disturbed.’

‘We did not ask to be here,’ said Teclis. He was back to his usual sullen self now.

‘No, but the Phoenix King requested the pleasure of your company and here you are. We must now see to it that you are suitably prepared for entering the royal presence.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We must see that you do not disgrace us in his presence.’

‘You mean to teach us manners?’ There was an edge to Teclis’s voice. He sounded as if he was getting ready to unleash his temper again.

‘I intend that you should learn protocol.’

‘I am already familiar with how one addresses the Phoenix King,’ Teclis said with superlative arrogance.

‘There is a difference between knowing what to say and knowing when and how to say it.’

‘On formal occasions he is addressed as Blessed of Asuryan. Under some circumstances, most notably when haste might be required, he is to be called Chosen One, or simply Chosen. On high holy days, he is known as Fireborn. The last sentence of any address on such days is always: Watch over us Vessel of the Sacred Fire. Normally a simple sire will do if you are addressed in conversation.’

Lady Malene looked impressed. ‘How many different forms of address are there?’

‘Twenty-one. Shall I recite them?’

‘No. I am sure you will astonish me with that phenomenal memory of yours. Tyrion, can you match your brother’s scholarship?’

Tyrion was sure she already knew the answer to that, but she was making a point.

‘I am afraid not. I have never had much of a gift for it,’ he said.

‘You will need to learn them. You will need to know the titles of all the officials at court. You will need to know how to respectfully address his Sacred Majesty under every circumstance that might arise. You will need to learn the same things concerning the Everqueen for that matter.’

Tyrion groaned. ‘When am I ever likely to meet the Everqueen?’

‘Don’t worry, brother, I will help you,’ said Teclis.

‘That’s what I am worried about,’ said Tyrion. ‘It will be as much fun for the both of us as me teaching you how to use a sword.’

‘There are times when the right words and the right manner are as useful as being able to use a blade,’ said Lady Malene. ‘And they can be as deadly under the right circumstances.’

She sounded very serious. Tyrion looked abashed. She laughed.

‘Be grateful you did not grow up surrounded by this protocol, Prince Tyrion. You at least have had some time in which to be free of it.’ She sounded as if she envied him, which surprised Tyrion.

After a moment, she said, ‘There are some clothes in the wardrobes. They will be a poor fit but wear them for the moment. In a few minutes, the house tailors will visit you and see you are more suitably accoutred. Your grandfather wishes you to be dressed as is fitting for your station. So do I, for that matter.’

After she had gone Tyrion looked in the wardrobe. The most beautiful clothes he had ever seen hung there. He felt almost embarrassed when he put them on. Looking at himself in the mirror was like looking at a stranger.

There was another knock on the door. The tailors had arrived.

The woman stared at Tyrion and then walked around him, studying him with intense, more-than-professional interest. She walked over to where Teclis sat and gestured for him to stand. She nodded to herself twice, made some notes in a wax tablet with her stylus and then produced a cord of silk in which regular knots had been set. She used this to measure Tyrion’s chest size, his waist and the length of his leg. She nodded approvingly then went over to Teclis and did the same thing although she seemed less pleased with the results. All of this having been done, she left the room.

A male elf entered this time, placed a piece of parchment under each of Tyrion’s feet, and drew a line around them in charcoal. He too measured Tyrion’s thigh and ankle girth, did the same for Teclis and then left.

A jeweller arrived and used small copper rings to take the measure of their fingers, and copper torques to take the measure of their necks, and copper bracers to take the measure of their wrists. He too made notes in a wax tablet and departed.

A girl arrived, sat them down, and then began to cut their hair with a long razor and some scissors. When she had finished Tyrion studied himself in the mirror. His hair was no longer long and unkempt. It was combed out and thick and looked much better.

Teclis’s dark hair was cut close in a way that revealed his fine pointed ears and enhanced his gaunt, sallow features. He looked almost handsome, or would have if there had been more weight on him. The moon shone in through the window and in its light there was something skeletal about him, something sinister. Its gleam caught in his eyes and they seemed for a moment to burn with internal fire. Just for an instant his brother looked like a stranger. It was the haircut and the unfamiliar clothes and setting, Tyrion told himself, but could not quite believe it.

Teclis was different now. The journey, the city, the meetings with strangers, the promise of being taught magic had all changed him incrementally. Tyrion found it easy to imagine that some day the sum total of all these tiny changes would make his brother into a complete stranger. It also occurred to him that the same thing might be happening to him, in Teclis’s eyes, although he himself felt no different.

‘You have an odd expression on your face, brother,’ said Teclis.

‘I was just thinking the same about you,’ said Tyrion, making a joke of it.

‘I was thinking that one day all of the small changes we undergo might make us into total strangers.’

Tyrion did not need to tell him that he had been having exactly the same thought. He knew then that his twin already understood that. Teclis had always been more perceptive about these things than he.

‘It will take more than a change of clothes and a change of hair-style to do that,’ said Tyrion.

‘Those are just the start,’ said Teclis. ‘They have already started trying to teach us manners, how to behave, what we must do. They want to remake us for their own purposes.’

‘The trick is going to be finding out what those purposes really are,’ said Tyrion.

‘I am sure they will tell us in their own good time.’

Tyrion was not at all sure of that. Still, at least they were safe for the moment. It did not look like their lives were in any immediate danger.

Looking out of the window, Lady Fayelle thought it was a lovely night. The moon was bright. The stars were shining. Unable to keep still she paced across her room. She was excited. Soon she was to be married. Soon she would be leaving her father’s home forever. She was saddened by the prospect of leaving her aged parent alone in his gloomy old palace.

She had asked him to come and live with her new husband in Lothern. He had refused, saying he was too old and too set in his ways to move now. And he really loved this old place. She understood that. He had spent most of his long life here, had raised his children and buried his wife within its grounds. And it was all that was left to him, that and his pride in his ancient lineage.

Sometimes she thought he was a little too proud. He thought her new husband beneath her. His kin were merchants from Lothern and his family had been mere freeholders while her ancestors had ruled a kingdom and married into the Blood of Aenarion himself.

Her father was proud but you could not eat pride, nor repair ancient buildings with it nor pay the required number of retainers unless they too were like you, old and with nowhere else to go.

Her father understood these things, she knew, but he was too set in his ways to change. It had fallen on her to improve the fortunes of her house by marrying well, and to tell the truth, she had found it no hardship. She took out her locket and opened it and stared at his picture. Moralis, her husband-to-be, was as good and kind an elf as one could hope to meet, and he was handsome too.

More than that he brought a dash of the swashbuckling adventurer with him, for he was a sea captain and had travelled to many far places while helping make his family’s fortune. She liked him, and he liked her, and there was love there, which was not something she had ever thought to find, growing up as she had in this remote place far from the centres of civilisation.

She counted it a blessing of Isha that he had bought the land beside their estate. It had proven even more of a blessing that he had taken to her when he had first seen her.

She thought she heard a noise somewhere in the gloom. She went to the window and looked out into the night once more. She could not see anything.

She was not frightened. There was nothing really threatening in this part of Ulthuan. No wolves prowled here. No monsters strayed down from the mountains. No marauders had made it this far inland in a couple of centuries. The worst things she had ever heard about were some rumours of the spread of the old cults of luxury in the area, and those were most likely just Elrion and his friends playing at being decadent, and frightening themselves with the thought of the old dark magics.

She heard a stone bang against the shutter of her window. She knew who it was without having to look. Only one elf had ever done that. She opened the shutter. As if summoned by the thought of him, Elrion emerged from the gloom. There was something wild in his appearance. He looked different although she could not quite put her finger on how and she had known him since childhood.

‘What is it, Elrion? What is wrong?’ she asked. She thought she heard some large animal growling in the dark behind him. Perhaps some wild thing had strayed into the area after all, and he had fled before it. That might explain the wildness of his appearance.

‘In the name of Isha run down and open the door, it’s following me,’ he said, but he said it quietly, as if he did not want anyone to hear. Perhaps he was afraid of attracting the creature’s attention. She thought about ringing the bell to summon the servants but realised it would be faster just to go down herself and open the gate as she had done when they were younger. She raced down the stairs, threw the bolts on the gate and opened it.

‘Quickly, come in,’ she said, peering past his shoulder to see if whatever it was was still out there. She thought she caught sight of glowing eyes glittering in the gloom. There was something terrifying about them. He stepped passed her into the courtyard. As he did so, old Peteor emerged from inside the mansion. He carried a bow in his blue-veined old hand and he had an arrow knocked and ready.

‘I thought I heard the bolts being thrown,’ he said. ‘What is it? Who would come calling at this time of night?’

‘It is only Elrion,’ Fayelle said. ‘Some night-stalking beast followed him here.’

‘It’s an odd time of the night to come calling,’ said Peteor. He had never liked Elrion, and his liking had grown less as tales of Elrion’s debauched lifestyle and wild parties had become common knowledge in the neighbourhood.

‘I have urgent news for Prince Faldor,’ said Elrion. He strode over to Peteor with his hands outstretched. ‘It concerns the wedding. It’s not going to happen.’

‘Has there been an accident? Has something happened to Moralis?’ Fayelle asked.

‘What else could bring him at such a time of the night,’ said Peteor. ‘News brought after dark is usually bad news.’

‘I am afraid Peteor is right,’ said Elrion. He seemed to slap Peteor on the back. The old elf coughed and lurched forwards. Red stuff emerged from his nose and lips, and something bubbled in his chest, causing him to have trouble breathing.

‘Are you sick, Peteor?’ Fayelle asked. Peteor struggled to say something. He reached up and tried to grab Elrion who leaned against him and moved his arm again. Peteor bent double and more red erupted from his chest. Fayelle ran over to him ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, reaching out to touch him. She was shocked at how wet he was and how red her hand came away, then suddenly in a rush, she realised what was happening. ‘You are bleeding,’ she said. Frothy red bubbles erupted from Peteor’s mouth as he tried to speak. His eyes opened wide and he slumped forward.

‘He’s dead,’ said Elrion.

Fayelle felt sick and panicky and she did not quite understand what was going on even when she saw the red knife in Elrion’s hand.

‘And I am afraid everyone else here soon will be. Come now, there is someone I must introduce you to.’ He twisted her arm painfully up her back and pushed her towards the gateway, seemingly not caring any more that her screams were rousing the house. Lights were coming on everywhere and she could hear retainers moving within.

From out of the shadows, a massive and sinisterly beautiful humanoid figure emerged. It was the most handsome-looking elf she had ever seen, except for the fact that its feet ended in hooves, one arm ended in a crab-like pincer and small curling goat horns emerged from its forehead. She opened her mouth to scream and took in a lungful of oddly calming, musky perfume. She was suddenly filled with the urge to reach out and stroke the goat-horned elf’s naked flesh. He seemed to understand this and smiled back. It was a most winning smile.

‘Greetings, Blood of Aenarion,’ he said in the most thrilling voice imaginable. ‘You should be pleased. You will be the first to know my vengeance. And you will be the first whose soul I offer screaming to my god.’

The next morning, when he awoke, Tyrion found a pile of new clothes on the table in his room. Under the table was a complete set of new footwear. In a sandalwood box was a necklace, a torque and a pair of sunstone rings. He donned all the apparel including a very fine green cloak trimmed with cloth of gold and studied himself in the mirror. He looked every inch the asur prince, he thought, but he did not look like himself.

As he studied himself, a servant entered, without knocking. ‘Korhien Ironglaive requests your presence in the courtyard, Prince Tyrion. It appears he would like to give you a lesson in swordplay.’

‘Please tell Korhien I will be right down.’ He began to change out of his new clothes into the old ones he had used on the journey. He did not want such beautiful things ruined in weapons practice. The servant watched him uncomprehendingly for a few moments, lifted a shirt and a pair of britches and said, ‘I think you will find these were intended for you to wear at practice. I was told to take away all of your old clothes and burn them.’

Tyrion laughed. ‘I shall wear what you suggest but don’t burn my old clothes. Have them washed and mended and brought back to me. I may have some use for them yet.’

‘As you wish, sir.’ The servant looked confused. He could not imagine what Tyrion wanted these rags for. Tyrion decided it was better that way. He had an idea of doing something for which they might be useful. He was not sure he wanted his relatives to find that out yet.