Blood of Aenarion

chapter SEVENTEEN



‘It looks like they are preparing for a feast here,’ said Tyrion to Liselle. The morning sun shone down on the courtyard, illuminating the bustling activity all around them.

His cousin was dressed in another expensive gown of green Cathayan silk and watching the retainers hang more lanterns on the trees in the courtyard. Twigs of oak and wreaths of oak leaves were being placed over doorways. Trestle tables were being placed in the courtyard. Carved wooden statues of treemen guarded every entrance.

‘It will be the Feast of Deliverance soon. My grandfather is giving a ball to celebrate it, and the fact that you and your brother are among us.’

‘You are certainly doing it in style,’ he said. ‘Making a statement, I suppose.’

‘Yes and yes,’ said Liselle smiling.

The Feast was a celebration of the return of Aenarion’s children, Morelion and Yvraine from the heart of the Forest. They had been believed dead even by their father when in fact they had been under the protection of the Treeman Oakheart. He had saved them from the forces of Chaos and hidden them in the depths of the forest, thus preserving the life of the future Everqueen and her brother. Tyrion was descended from Morelion as was every other surviving child of the Blood of Aenarion save Malekith, the Witch King of Naggaroth. He could see that House Emeraldsea was reminding everyone of their connection with the Blood by ostentatiously giving this feast. If it turned out that he and Teclis were judged accursed it was a potentially very risky move.

‘It looks like it is going to be a very big party,’ said Tyrion. ‘When exactly will it be?’

‘In less than a week, on the night of the Rejoicing.’ That was the traditional night when balls and parties were given and offerings made in temples. ‘Although there may not be much to rejoice over this year.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Word is that Ulthuan is under attack. Outlying mansions have been ravaged by worshippers of the Dark Prince of Pleasure. A whole town was sacked by an army headed by a daemon.’ She sounded a little worried as she said it, but not as if she was taking it entirely seriously.

‘How do you know this?’

‘A messenger brought word to my mother last night. She was summoned to the palace. A ranger found bodies at a mansion in the mountains. It seems a mage survived the attack on Tor Annan and managed a Sending. Other places have been attacked. The Phoenix King called a council to discuss what happened and decide what to do about it.’

‘A town sacked by daemons – that sounds very serious. Perhaps he will have no time to attend parties.’

‘You obviously have not had much experience of life in Lothern, Prince Tyrion. The social round would go on if the world was ending. It is the life blood of this city. Anyway, I doubt Finubar is about to strap on a sword and go hunting daemons himself. That’s what he has people like Korhien for.’

Tyrion paused to think about what she had said. Cultists attacking outlying mansions. Towns destroyed by daemon-led armies. It all sounded very unlikely standing here in this bustling courtyard in the bright light of day. And yet he supposed that was how these things must always seem to those not directly involved in them. This was nothing to do with him. Of that he felt sure.

‘I hear you have been slipping out at nights,’ said Liselle. She smiled. ‘It did not take you long to find a secret lover.’

Tyrion smiled back. He should have known that his comings and goings would not be unobserved. There were other observers than guards watching over the mansion.

‘There is no secret lover,’ said Tyrion. ‘I merely wanted to see the city without an entourage of retainers.’

‘Use the front door,’ she said. ‘It’s the easiest way.’

‘I have the elven passion for secrecy and intrigue,’ he said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘That always makes things more interesting.’

Before he could ask her what she meant by that, she strode away, pausing in the doorway to turn and smile at him. It looked posed but she was still lovely.

Life in Lothern was certainly interesting. There was no mistaking that.

Tyrion had never seen a place quite so crowded, dirty, smelly and wonderful as the Foreigners’ Quarter. He was glad he had put on his old clothes and snuck out of the Emeraldsea Palace again.

He was free and just for this evening, he felt like his old self again. It was not just wearing his old clothes. It was not being hemmed in by endless formalities and the rituals of life in the palace.

He was already starting to be bored. Weapons practice was fun, but the endless lessons in protocol were not. He had enjoyed the dancing lessons and flirting with his pretty relatives but he had not enjoyed being told how to behave. He felt like he was somehow on probation, less than a guest, something of a prisoner.

Servants watched his every move. Bodyguards followed him everywhere, supposedly for his own protection. Tonight he had climbed down from the balcony of his chambers into the street and slipped off where no one would dream of looking for him. He knew he was being childish, that he should simply have taken Liselle’s advice and used the front door, but he liked doing this.

This was the sort of adventure he had dreamed of ever since he was young.

For the first time ever Tyrion was seeing beings of a different race, and lots of them. They bustled through the Foreigners’ Quarter as if they owned the place, and they paid less attention to him than he did to them. He supposed they must be used to seeing elves. He was not at all used to seeing humans.

They were smaller than he was, shorter than almost all elves, and yet heavier, bloated with fat and muscle. They looked clumsy and graceless and their voices sounded like the squawking and bellowing of beasts in a jungle. There were so many different types of them: tall, pale elaborately dressed men from Marienburg and the Empire; dusky hawk-featured, scimitar-bearing Arabyans from the lands of the south; Cathayans clad in silk robes.

He understood why some elves affected to despise them. There was a coarseness about them, a brutal directness of speech and gesture combined with a grubbiness and stench that was off-putting. And yet he was not put off – he found the differing accents and voices and clothes and body language exhilarating, as entertaining as any book or poem he had read.

Their clothes were coarsely made and their foods smelled of fat and salt and spices. Sausages of some indescribable meat sizzled on spits. Fish blackened on braziers. Sellers stomped everywhere with trays of savouries strapped to their chest, small but vicious-looking dogs snapping at their heels.

These humans were a long way from their homes but somehow they had made themselves at home here. The architecture of the quarter had taken on a humanish look. Brick buildings leaned at crazy angles against the remnants of much older elven structures. Ancient palaces had been turned into vast warrens and mazes of dwellings and shops and merchants offices.

There was none of the courtliness or formality of elvish culture. Men bumped into each other in the street and either backed away swiftly, hands reaching for swords, or grinned and nodded and passed on their way.

Merchants argued prices. Harlots led drunken sailors into side alleys and in pairs they humped and groaned against the walls. In quiet corners, men played chess on odd-looking boards with carved wooden pieces of strange design. He stopped to watch a game and just from a few moves he could tell the rules were not so different from those he was used to.

When the humans noticed him, they stopped and looked at him as if they anticipated him saying something. He gestured for them to continue but they just stared until even he felt a little uncomfortable and a little rude for distracting them from their game, so he sketched a bow and moved on deeper into the great bazaar.

Carpets hung overhead, draped over wooden racks intended to display them to best advantage. Perhaps it would have worked as intended if the skylights had not been blackened with soot and grime and the shadowy interiors of the corridors lit only by lanterns and flambeaux.

From the gloom he saw smaller, bearded figures peering and he was astonished to see dwarfs. Despite their long beards and squat builds these dwarfs were garbed more like humans than the heavily armoured warriors he expected. Had the race really changed so much since the times of Caledor the Second or were these some strange new hybrid of dwarf and human? He remembered Teclis telling him once that several clans of dwarves had gone to live among the humans of the Empire. Perhaps these were such.

He passed pawnbrokers and factors’ offices and doorways where lurked small groups of armed men who appeared to have no business there. These looked at him with a real sense of menace. At first he thought they were simply as curious about him as he was about them, but after a while he realised that there was a different quality in the glances they gave him.

One of them, more elaborately dressed than the others, with a peacock feather in a slouched hat, strutted up to him and walked around him, inspecting him and all the time glaring at him.

‘What you want, elfie boy?’ he asked, mangling the elvish language with his teeth and tongue. His pronunciation was poor and his grasp of the subtleties of grammar non-existent, but it was still astonishing in its way, like listening to a dog that had learned to talk. It made Tyrion smile.

‘What you grinnin’ at, cat-eyes?’ the human asked and his companions laughed. For the first time Tyrion realised there was a note of disrespect in the man’s voice. He was more astonished than angered. It was like being mocked by a monkey.

He kept quiet because he could not think of anything to say and his silence seemed to encourage the human. His companions egged him on. As he came closer, the stench of coarse strong alcohol from his breath hit Tyrion with the force of a blow.

The man was drunk, Tyrion realised, and looking for a fight. Tyrion had never had any great need to learn the human speech and he greatly regretted that deficiency now. Perhaps if he had been able to speak to the man in his own tongue he might have been able to defuse the situation.

At the same time as the thought crossed his mind, another realisation hit him. He did not really care. If this monkey-man wanted a fight, he would get it. Tyrion had never backed down from one in his life and he did not intend to do so now.

It occurred to him that perhaps this was not the most sensible attitude – he was alone in the Foreigners’ Quarter and there were none of his own kind to help him. This human had a whole gang of friends and it was perfectly possible all the other humans within earshot would aid him out of solidarity with their kind. Still, Tyrion decided, even taking all of these factors into account, he was not about to back down.

‘What you lookin’ at?’ the human demanded in his pidgin gibberish.

‘I don’t know but it’s looking back,’ Tyrion responded. He did not know whether the man understood his words, but he certainly understood the tone of contempt. The man went for his sword. Before he could draw it, Tyrion struck him, the force of the blow smashing him to the ground. His friends rose swiftly, reaching for knives and blades.

‘That was a good punch,’ said a voice from behind him. From its tone and timbre, Tyrion could tell it belonged to a human but the words were not mangled or slurred. They could almost have been spoken by an elf. ‘So fast I did not see anything but a blur.’

The owner of the voice said something in their own tongue to the gang of warriors. They sat down again as quickly as they had risen.

The speaker came into view. He loomed over the fallen bruiser and berated him. Tyrion’s victim lay on the ground, abashed, a stream of blood running from his nose, and a dazed expression on his face. He seemed to grow smaller and smaller and less and less confident as the newcomer’s tirade went on. Eventually he pulled himself up and slunk back to his friends, and they vanished through the archway they had at first appeared to be guarding.

‘What did you say to him?’ Tyrion asked. The newcomer turned to look at him. He was tall for a human and broad, running to fat. His face was ruddy but it had an open, honest quality that even Tyrion could read on a human face.

‘I told him he was an idiot.’

‘You seemed to tell him a lot more than that, or is idiot such a long word in your language?’

The stranger laughed. ‘I was explaining to him exactly why he was an idiot, like his father and his father’s father before him.’

‘And why would that be?’

The stranger cocked his head to one side and inspected Tyrion for a long moment. There was nothing sullen or aggressive about that stare and Tyrion felt no resentment of it.

‘You really don’t know, do you?’

‘I really don’t,’ Tyrion agreed.

‘And you are much younger than you look.’

‘How old do I look?’

‘It’s hard to say. All elves look the same and they could be a thousand years old.’

‘Most do not live that long.’

‘Yes but mostly you die through misadventure or violence. You don’t age the same as we do.’

Tyrion thought about all of the humans he had seen in his wanderings through the Foreigners’ Quarter. Some of them were more decrepit than any elf could ever be. ‘We age more slowly and perhaps differently. I do not know enough about your kind to say.’

‘Nor I about yours.’

‘You seemed to have avoided my question, sir,’ said Tyrion. ‘Why was that man an idiot?’

‘Because he was drunk and because by attacking you he could have gotten all of us banned from Ulthuan and that would be true idiocy, for there is a power of gold to be made in trading with elves, too much to be risked by the drunken stupidity of one ignorant fool with a chip on his shoulder.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Tyrion.

‘Most assuredly it does, sir,’ said the newcomer. ‘Most assuredly. I try to make sense whenever I speak, I would like to think I am a sensible man, sir elf.’

‘You seem so to me.’

‘Thank you, sir. It is a compliment indeed that you should say so.’ Tyrion noticed that the man had been almost imperceptibly guiding him out of the labyrinth of the bazaar as they walked. He found it amusing to have been so neatly manoeuvred and to his own advantage. Clearly the man did not want to say there was the possibility of Tyrion’s presence creating another disturbance deeper in the bazaar, and just as clearly he was trying to avoid the possibility arising. It was handled most adroitly. Tyrion realised that he would have to reassess his opinion of the humans. They were clearly cleverer and capable of greater grace than most elves gave them credit for.

He could not wait to share this information with Teclis. He knew it would amuse his brother.

‘And then with the greatest of ease, he led me out of the marketplace, and to the gates. He was saying farewell in such a natural and easy manner that it seemed only natural that I should pass through them and come back into Lothern proper.’

Teclis laughed but there was something else written alongside the amusement on his thin face, a wistfulness that made Tyrion realise just how much his twin envied him this little adventure.

‘Who would ever have thought you could have a sitting room like this?’ Tyrion said, to change the subject. The chamber was impressively furnished. The table was massive, worked from rich aromatic wood from Cathay and inscribed with intertwined nymphs and godlings. Over two walls hung heavy tapestries of the richest sort. There was crystal in the windows and they had no shutters, only a thick pair of curtains capable of cutting out any draft.

On the wall opposite was a picture depicting merchant ships at sea, the source of their relatives’ great wealth. Near the table was a freestanding mirror in which Tyrion could see his own reflection and that of Teclis. He stood in the light of the lantern, Teclis was partially concealed in shadow.

‘I think the servants have chambers as good as ours,’ Teclis said, his tone caustic.

‘I do not care,’ said Tyrion. ‘I have never seen a room as sumptuously appointed as my own.’

‘That’s because you have so little to compare it to. There are other houses in Lothern as rich as this one and with rooms ten times as well furnished.’

‘How do you know so much about this place already?’

‘Because I read, brother, and because I quiz the maid who comes to make up my room and see to my needs.’

Tyrion could imagine his brother’s questioning and felt a little sorry for the maid. Teclis was blunt to the point of being almost human, and he had a most un-elven way about him.

‘I do not care if anyone is much richer than us. I, for one, intend to be happy here.’

‘You would be happy anywhere. It is your disposition to be so, disgracefully, bright, optimistic, sunny.’

How could I not be, when I have this great city to run around? Tyrion was about to say, but he realised that would only make Teclis more bitter and envious. It came to him then, and he was astonished at his own slowness of mind, that the reason why his twin was being critical of their cousins was because he was angry at Tyrion for having his adventures but could not bring himself to say so.

Teclis was making his anger felt in other ways, unfair to their kindred and unworthy of him. Tyrion felt almost guilty for a moment, but pushed the feeling aside. He was who he was through no fault of his own, he was not going to apologise for it to his brother.

‘And it is yours to be bitter, brother,’ said Tyrion. ‘Although I can understand why...’

‘I honestly doubt that, Tyrion. You have no idea what it is like to be stuck here, knowing that out there life is going on and a great city is going about its business while you are trapped and can do nothing... nothing.’

‘I can try,’ said Tyrion weakly. And behind all the other bitterness he sensed a deeper one. Teclis had briefly enjoyed a few weeks of good health before his relapse. It was a cruel blow to him. No wonder he was angry.

‘Yes, and you do.’ Teclis said.

‘What is that book on the bedside table?’ said Tyrion to change the subject again.

‘It is a book of conjurations. Lady Malene has a whole library of such things here.’

‘You’ve visited this library then?’

‘Mara, the maid, told me of it so I had to see it.’

Tyrion could imagine his brother limping along the corridor to reach such a prize. He had gone through all of the books in their father’s house except the ones their father kept locked in his magically sealed cabinet because they were too dangerous for any but a skilled sorcerer. Tyrion could well remember his brother’s obsession with that cabinet. It looked like nothing was locked here. He supposed the spells must be harmless, otherwise they would be kept under lock and key.

‘And you... ah... borrowed this one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does Lady Malene know?’

‘Take a look at this,’ said Teclis, going from bitter and caustic to excited in a flash. He opened the book and Tyrion saw lines of words separated by multiple straight lines marked with what looked like musical notes.

‘It looks like music with words,’ said Tyrion. ‘Is it a song?’

‘No, it’s a spell. The words are the incantation, the first line of symbols below shows right-hand gestures, the line below that left-hand gestures, the last line shows inflexion.’

‘Inflexion?’

‘It’s a sort of twist of mind that you must perform to touch the power of the spell in the right way – violent, sad, passive and so on.’

‘Like a mood?’

Teclis made a face which showed what he thought of his brother’s suggestion.

‘In a way, I suppose,’

‘They are just squiggles on a page to me.’

‘Trust me they are more than just that. Lady Malene has told me enough of the theory for me to know.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

An urgency came into Teclis’s voice. ‘It all just fits together. There is a unity to it and when you understand that you can do almost anything. You change your own internal state, you touch the winds of magic, you tap their power, you change your state again, and shape the forces with your mind, your words, your gestures and all the time what you are really doing is altering the world.’

‘In all honesty, I can’t say I follow you.’

‘I will show you, look. Put a chair in front of the mirror and help me to it.’

Tyrion was not sure he liked the way this was going but he did as his twin asked. It was good to see him so animated and for once not touched with bitterness. Teclis sat with the book in his hand, and then made some odd gestures, fingers rippling, hands twisting as he crooned words in an archaic version of the elvish tongue.

A chill touched Tyrion’s spine. He felt uncanny forces flow around him. He looked into the mirror and saw concern on his face. Teclis’s features had become a mask, and his gaze was fixed and staring. Even as Tyrion watched, the mirror misted as if someone had breathed on it, although no one had. Their outlines became shadow and blurred and then vanished altogether. The surface of the mirror rippled and settled and became normal again.

‘It looks just the same,’ said Tyrion. ‘I don’t know what you were trying but it did not work.’

Teclis smile was a ghastly rictus. He made a gesture with his left hand as if he were spinning a top. The image in the mirror turned. At first Tyrion wondered if Teclis had made him dizzy with his magic but then he realised that he was perfectly stable and so was the room. It was the point of view in the mirror that was changing.

Teclis made another gesture and he was looking at the two of them from behind. It was as if the mirror had become the eye of some great roving beast and they were looking out from behind that eye. Tyrion laughed at the wonder of it and Teclis joined in, obviously enjoying the feeling of power, and the use of magic.

The view in the mirror shifted again, moving through the door and out into the corridor. It flew along now as fast as Tyrion could run, and Tyrion guessed his brother was enjoying the vicarious experience of running at a speed he would never achieve in life. Tyrion wondered if the point of view could fly. That would be truly a wonderful thing.

Even as that thought struck him, he saw Lady Malene running along the corridor towards them. She reached a point just in front of the eye and gestured. The mirror went suddenly dark. Teclis gasped as if stabbed. A few moments later, the door in the room opened and she entered.

‘What is going on?’ she demanded, in a tone of utmost urgency. She gazed around the room as if seeking some threat, a faint nimbus of light played around her hands. Tyrion realised she was prepared to work magic at a moment’s notice, and he guessed from her expression that it would be a spell of a potent and deadly sort. ‘Did something try to break in here?’

He could hear the sound of many running feet now. Armed warriors poured into the room as if in answer to some unheard summons. They gazed around the room too, obviously as baffled as Lady Malene. They looked like soldiers who having nerved themselves up for combat were disappointed to find no foe awaiting them.

‘It was me, lady,’ said Teclis.

‘What was you?’ she said.

‘I worked a spell.’

‘You are not a mage yet, boy. I sensed the presence of an awful power. I thought we were attacked, that you were attacked because the focus of the power was here.’

‘I worked a spell,’ said Teclis stubbornly. He indicated the open book on his knee.

Lady Malene came over and snatched it up. ‘You cast this?’ There was naked disbelief in her voice. ‘Impossible.’

‘My brother does not lie,’ said Tyrion rankled by the tone their aunt was taking. He would have been more annoyed at her tone had he not sensed that she was angry as much from concern about their well-being as annoyance at what Teclis had done.

She looked at the spell again, and then at the mirror. Her hand moved through a small circular gesture. She spoke a few words in the archaic version of Elvish that Teclis had used to invoke the spell. The surface of the mirror shimmered brilliantly and then faded. She turned her gaze back upon them.

‘Look at me,’ she said. ‘This is no joke so don’t smile. Answer me and answer me true. Did anything enter this chamber? Did anything breach the wards on this palace?’

‘No,’ said Teclis with utter assurance.

‘Did you cast the Spell of the Invisible Eye?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who taught you how to do that?’

‘No one.’

‘Don’t lie, boy. What did your father teach you?’

‘Nothing, witch,’ said Teclis just as annoyed, and seemingly completely oblivious to the way armed elves reached for weapons when they heard his tone. ‘My father taught me nothing. The basic procedures were all in this book. I worked out the rest for myself from what you have already taught me.’

‘You worked out the rest for yourself? Do you seriously expect me to believe an untrained lad could derive from first principles the knowledge to cast a third order spell of transvisualisation?’

‘I don’t care whether you believe me,’ said Teclis with superb arrogance. ‘I did it. I could do it again.’

Lady Malene stared at him for a very long time. ‘You are either a wonderful liar or the greatest natural mage who has ever lived.’

Later Tyrion was to remember that her words had the force of a prophecy.