Blood of Aenarion

chapter thirteen



On his arrival home, Prince Iltharis went to his chambers. They were in the old part of the Silvermount Palace, on the ground floor. The building was extremely ancient and this part looked as if it has not undergone very much reconstruction in the past few centuries.

Two thousand-year old tapestries hung on the wall, preserved by the magic woven into them. Busts depicting the faces of elves dead millennia ago but still remembered and honoured by their descendants lined the corridors.

Iltharis looked around, smiling fondly, then locked the door. He pulled the drapes to stop any light finding its way in and then retreated deeper into his chambers, locking the doors behind him as he went.

When he reached the room deepest in his apartments, he unlocked a glass cabinet case, and produced a hookah and some incense sticks. He took a somewhat disreputable, not to mention very expensive, narcotic from a pouch and placed it in the hookah, setting it alight so that the scent would be faintly noticeable throughout his chambers and so give a suitable explanation for anyone who wondered why he had locked so many doors.

He turned the key on the final lock. It was very strong as was the door it was set in. It had been built in more troubled times and was intended to protect the occupant from assassins. It would take a group of strong elves a long time to break that door down.

Having completed his preparations, he pulled aside the wall hangings and, with the ease of long practice, pushed a pressure pad set in the wall. A section of the wall rotated to reveal a secret passage beyond. It had been intended by the builders as an escape route for the occupants of the chamber protected by that very strong door. Iltharis closed the secret panel behind him and followed a ramp that went a very long way below the city.

The air grew more stagnant and musty. The way grew darker. Prince Iltharis moved along the passage with remarkable ease considering the absence of light. Eventually his steps took him to a dead end. Here, he reached up and found another pressure plate in a place that would have been too high for anyone to find by accident. Another secret door opened. Iltharis went through it and closed it behind him, and then reached out and found a lantern hanging there and lit it. Here, deep below the earth, shielded by many spells and many tons of solid rock above him, he looked upon a potent magical artefact.

In the centre of the chamber stood a huge, silver mirror. He studied his reflection in it for a moment, smiled, swallowed his nervousness. He pricked his thumb, smeared blood on the surface of the mirror and invoked a spell.

It grew colder as he chanted. At first it looked cloudy as if some giant’s breath were misting the glass, then, within its depths, a cold blue light became visible and the view in the mirror grew clearer although it no longer reflected Prince Iltharis’s surroundings.

He looked now into a vast hall, dominated by a mighty iron throne on which reclined a huge armoured figure. The figure seemed out of proportion to its surroundings, an adult sitting in a child’s playhouse. The armour of the figure glowed with dreadful runes but the glow of that fatal magic was no more terrifying than the glow in its eyes. Iltharis looked into them and, as ever, was shocked by the force of their owner’s will.

Iltharis fought down a shudder and made himself meet the gaze of his master, Malekith, Witch King of Naggaroth.

‘Well, Urian, what have you to report?’ The voice was cold and stark and beautiful in its strange fashion, the same way as the frozen landscapes of icebound northern Naggaroth were beautiful.

‘Greetings, majesty, I have seen the latest of the Blood to report to the court of the False King.’

‘And?’

‘They are... unusual.’

‘In what way?’

‘They are twins. One of them very much a warrior, one of them will be a mage of some considerable power, unless I miss my guess.’

‘Do they show any signs of the Curse?’

‘Teclis, the one who will be a mage, is physically very weak. I do not know if he will live for much longer.’

‘Then he can hardly be of much concern to us, for good or ill, can he? What of the other one?’

‘Tyrion does indeed seem to be of the line of Aenarion, sire. He is tall and well-formed and very fast and strong. If he lives he will become a most formidable warrior.’

‘As good as you, Urian?’

‘I doubt he will live that long, sire. Word has it that the Cult of the Forbidden Blade already plans his death.’ The Cult plotted the death of any they felt might be able to draw the Sword of Khaine and thus end the world. They were idiots, but they were dangerous idiots, and they numbered some very deadly duellists as part of their ancient conspiracy.

‘But if he does live, Urian?’

‘Then, yes, sire. It is possible he would be my match.’

‘He must be formidable indeed.’

‘He is, sire. And by all accounts he is quick of mind and gifted at tactics.’

‘Does he bear any signs of the Curse, Urian? The Curse?’

‘Not as yet, sire, but he is very young. What would you have me do about him?’

‘Keep a close eye on him, Urian. If he shows any signs of the Curse, we shall let him live. If not...’

‘As you wish, sire. And the other, the sickly one?’

‘It does not sound like he will be a problem, does it?’

‘No, sire. It does not.’

‘You like them, don’t you, Urian?’

As always Iltharis was surprised by the perceptiveness of his master. He did not know why that should be. It was impossible to rule a kingdom like Naggaroth for long ages without great insight into the elven heart.

‘I do, sire,’ Iltharis said. He always felt that honesty, insofar as he was able to manage it, was the best policy when dealing with his master. He had known too many elves suffer terrible fates through lying to Malekith.

‘I do hope you are not becoming soft over there among our degenerate kinfolk, Urian.’

‘I will do whatever is needed, sire. As I always do.’

‘I know Urian. That is why you are my most trusted servant.’

He made a gesture and the great mirror went dark. Iltharis once again found himself facing his own reflection. He laughed out loud at his master’s final words. Malekith trusted no one. Iltharis began to suspect that he himself might be marked for death.

‘No one lives forever,’ he muttered to himself. Not even you, Malekith, he thought but he kept that part to himself. Even down here, you never knew who might be listening. The Witch King had eyes and ears everywhere.

Urian looked at himself in the now dormant mirror. He was not sure he recognised himself any more. He touched the long dark hair that ran down to his shoulders. Back in the beginning, before he had been singled out to become what he was today, his hair had been white. He was fairly sure of that. His skin had been pale and he had a few freckles. His eyes had been a simple green. His nose had been snub for an elf. Or perhaps his hair had been the colour of copper. He truly could not remember. His memories were twisted and there had been times when he had been less than sane. He was certain of that.

So many times now, his skin had been peeled from him and replaced with the flayed flesh of others. The bones in his face had been restructured. His eyes had been replaced by orbs stolen from someone else’s sockets and kept preserved in jars of alchemical brine. He touched his eyelids now, wondering who these eyes had once belonged to; an elf, of course, but whether a high elf or a dark elf he could not tell. There was no real difference between the two, after all. Who knew that better than him?

How many hours had he spent chained to the altars in Naggarond while sorcerer-surgeons worked on him with blood-stained scalpels, peeling off his skin, magically grafting on new flesh? How many days had he spent with his brain magically altered to perceive pleasure as pain and pain as pleasure, except for those moments when the surgeons for their own amusement had chosen to let the spells lapse? How many weeks would he one day spend claiming his vengeance on those same magi?

He raised his glass and toasted himself. The wine was pallid and tasteless but he kept it here to give him something to steady his nerves after his little chats with his master. He missed the hallucinogenic vintages of Naggaroth, just as he missed the gladiatorial games and the easy availability of slave girls. He had kept a harem of them in his palace in Naggarond. They had been his, to do with whatever he wanted, to dispose of however he willed when he had done with them. That had been in another lifetime, one that seemed like a dream now. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps he had always been Prince Iltharis and he was mad, and the life of Urian Poisonblade, champion of Malekith, was some sort of deranged fantasy. Or perhaps he just wished it so.

He smiled mockingly and his reflection smiled back. He had worn so many other faces, lived so many other lives, he sometimes lost track of these things. There were times when he really believed himself to be Prince Iltharis and a loyal friend to the Phoenix King and Korhien Ironglaive. Those were not bad things to be, he thought, and then scoffed at his own weakness.

He was getting soft. He had spent too much time amid these spineless creatures that called themselves high elves and too long away from the harsh certainties of Naggaroth. He had grown accustomed to not having to carry a dozen concealed weapons and look for treachery in the faces of those who called themselves his closest friends. Now the only face he looked upon that hid treachery was his own. It winked back at him from the mirror and then it smiled sourly.

This was not what he had expected, not at all. He found he quite enjoyed living this life. He enjoyed being respected and not simply feared for his talent with a blade. He enjoyed living among people who thought of things other than their own interests occasionally.

Once, like all the other druchii, he had scoffed at the asur and their hypocrisy, the way they felt they were better, more moral. He had come to realise that in some ways they were. Even if they were hypocrites, their very hypocrisy made them better than the dark elves. The fact that they wanted to appear good, even for the wrong reasons, made them behave in a way that was better.

It did not matter that they aided each other because they wanted to be seen to live up to some ancient ideal. The fact was, that for whatever the reasons, they did. And some of them really did believe in their ideals, Korhien and young Prince Tyrion for example, unless he was much mistaken. They were fools, of course, but it was a folly that it was possible to respect. Nor were they weak – their folly gave them strength and courage.

He took another sip of wine and wished that it were laced with the ecstatic poisons made from powdered lotus. At times like these he missed them. Before he came to Ulthuan, to assume the role of Prince Iltharis that had been long prepared for him among Malekith’s secret followers in Ulthuan, he had been forced to abstain for months. It had been a hard time. He had sweated through withdrawal symptoms that would have killed other druchii. He had lost the bright, mad clarity that never, ever having his bloodstream free of the drugs had given him. In some ways, he realised he really had made himself into a high elf. He had been forced to live as they did.

It was not entirely unpleasant. He was no longer given to mad rages or picking quarrels with strangers for reasons he could never quite remember the next day. He lived in a place now where that would not be acceptable. Here, elves needed good reasons to kill each other, they did not do it simply to gratify a momentary whim. Of course, he missed being able to do that sometimes. Who would not? But he found these days that he had fewer regrets.

He admitted it. He sometimes wished that he could simply forget who he was and become Prince Iltharis. He would put aside his divided loyalties and fragmented personality and become wholly one thing. For a moment, and a moment only, he allowed himself to imagine what that would really feel like.

Then he dismissed the fantasy.

There were those who knew who he was, who would not allow him to do that. And even if he killed them, there would be others, secret watchers whom he never suspected. They would bring word of his treachery to the Witch King. And Malekith was not a forgiving master to those who betrayed him. He would stretch out his cold metal hand, and a suitable vengeance would be wreaked. There was nothing more certain in this life.

No, even if he wanted to give up this life, he could not. There was no escape. There was nothing to do but make the best of it.