Ystormun laughed into the silence. ‘For all your vitriol, you have not a single spine between you.’
‘I will oversee your efforts,’ said Pamun. ‘But I will not stand by your side.’
‘Oversee? Look to your own problems, Pamun. Why aren’t the lords of every tribe awaiting us in the rotunda? Where are the legions of shamen to lead our tide of destruction?’ Ystormun turned to Belphamun and met his gaze. ‘We all have our tasks, brother. Leave me to complete mine.’
‘Do not fail us again,’ said Belphamun.
‘Nor you us.’
Belphamun bridled. ‘I have not-’
‘You have no idea if Dawnthief is ours, is lost or rests in the hands of Xetesk.’
‘My agents are in the field as we speak.’
‘But they have not found an answer, and so we are vulnerable. Hence you have failed. I accept the shortcomings of certain of my actions, brother. Why don’t you?’
Ystormun pushed back his chair and stood.
‘There is much to be done,’ he said, feeling the weight of their combined hatred like a collar around his neck. ‘Sadly, the elves will not exterminate themselves.’
‘A shame since that appears to be your brightest hope,’ said Arumun.
‘You possess so much bitterness, Arumun,’ said Ystormun. ‘It blights what would otherwise be the delightfully pathetic collection of bile, bigotry and ignorance making up your character.’
‘Ystormun,’ said Pamun. ‘The business of the Hexerion is not yet done. And we all must have the opportunity to comment on Belphamun’s ideas. And you shall listen, Brother. And hear how success sounds. Sit.’
Ystormun bit his lip. With the eyes of the cadre on him he had no choice but to lose face. He sat. Giriamun chuckled.
‘Error upon error,’ he hissed.
Pamun’s eyes closed briefly. His door opened and the stench of Wesman flooded the chamber. Weyamun gestured his displeasure with a flap of a hand in front of his nose. Giriamun coughed.
‘Could you not have had it bathed?’
‘Come, Sentaya. Stand among us. Show us your faith,’ said Pamun.
The man walked forward to stand between Pamun and Weyamun. He was shaven-headed, dressed in warm woollen clothes and his shoulders were draped in a lined cloak. He was of average height and appeared past his physical peak though his neck was still thick with muscle.
Ystormun could not see his face until the Wesman leaped on to the table and turned a slow circle, taking them all in. It was weathered, tanned dark, scarred and flat. His eyes were brown, defiant and hard. He displayed no fear.
‘My name is Sentaya. I am lord of the Paleon tribes and rightful lord of all the tribes of the Wes.’ He continued to turn his slow circle. ‘My faith is in my gods and in the strength of my arms. It is in the blood coursing through my veins and the veins of every man of Wes. We seek to destroy a common enemy. Without me, you cannot unite the tribes and bring them to the gates of the colleges in numbers that will break them. Without you, we cannot be certain of defeating their magic.
‘But we are not your servants. I am not your slave. It shall always be this way.’
Sentaya stopped turning and stared at Pamun. Ystormun could see the fury in the Wytch Lord’s face. He smiled as dark sparks flashed in Pamun’s palms.
‘We are your masters,’ said Pamun. ‘Your lives are in our hands to be snuffed out as and when we choose.’
Sentaya shrugged. ‘I do not fear death. But you surely fear being exiled here for eternity.’
Ystormun stood once more.
‘So this is success? We have discovered a whole new definition. Well met, Sentaya, lord of the Paleon. And now, with or without your permission, brothers, I am leaving. There is work to be done.’
Chapter 4
When the muster is called, the TaiGethen answer.
Ysundeneth was in ferment.
Auum and Ulysan had run hard from Aryndeneth, hearing the call to muster repeated over and over. It haunted Auum’s waking hours and woke him from his brief moments of sleep. Auum ran up to the top of the cliffs surrounding the Ultan to look down on the city before going in, and what he saw took his breath away.
Like an invasion was already under way, ordinary elves were flooding out of Ysundeneth and into the dubious security of the rainforest. He could see hundreds of sails, big and small, heading along the coast to the east and west. Elves thronged the streets doing whatever it was that panic prompted.
But there were no human ships outside the harbour; none on the horizon either. All the same, elves with no experience of living beyond the city were still throwing themselves on the mercy of the forest in fear of what might be coming. And Takaar had fuelled it all, whether by accident or design hardly mattered.
‘Why do they listen to him?’ whispered Auum. ‘You’d think no one else knew he’s insane and given to outbursts and fabrications. What a mess.’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘The temple of Yniss in the piazza. That’s the only place we’ll get a level-headed appraisal of the situation.’
The Ultan bridge was thronged with people in the process of making themselves refugees. A few Al-Arynaar were with them, trying to direct them to the surer forest paths.
Auum ran along the handrail and swung about the flagpoles set along its length looking at the upturned faces as he passed. Two out of ten of them would fall prey to bite, claw or sting. No one with them had any knowledge of herbs or roots, barks or flowers.
Auum called for them to go home, to listen for the TaiGethen order to evacuate, if it ever came. But a greater power, a greater charisma at any rate, had voiced fear enough to drive them into the rainforest’s dangerous embrace. Takaar: they loved and hated him in equal measure, but they always believed him.
The temple piazza was full to bursting with elves desperate to pray in their temple, seeking guidance from their priests or simply looking to share their fear with each other. Auum and Ulysan headed to the temple of Yniss, skirting the piazza to avoid getting stuck in the desperate heaving crowd.
Auum was uncomfortable this close to a crowd; too many memories, too many harsh sounds at odds with the purity of the rainforest. He led Ulysan down the left-hand side of the temple. It was quieter here. The walls were painted the colours of the forest and Auum instantly felt calmer. He indicated upwards, Ulysan following his gesture.
Perhaps seventy feet up, lantern light was spilling from a circular opening.
‘Think she’s up there?’ asked Ulysan.
‘Race you to find out,’ said Auum.
Ulysan was strong, fast and had a long reach. Auum had often likened him to a monkey, and the big TaiGethen delighted in the gentle jibe. He leaped, found a tiny fingerhold in the timber work and cruised up the outside of the temple as if he was scaling a ladder. Auum smiled and followed as quickly as he could. He was still a good ten feet behind when Ulysan disappeared through the opening. By the time he’d turned a roll over the sill to land in Lysael’s dedication chamber, Ulysan was sitting in a chair reading a book.
‘Very funny,’ said Auum.
‘I thought we should attempt to alleviate the tension for a moment,’ said Lysael, moving into view from behind a screen, cinching her pale grey robes with a braided red cord. ‘You are most welcome, Auum.’
Auum knelt and Lysael kissed the top of his head. He stood and the two of them embraced, Auum kissing her eyes and forehead and she returning the gesture.
‘Please tell me you know what’s going on,’ said Auum. ‘All I know is a human mage called Stein has contacted Takaar and he has reacted with the proper urgency but without the proper tact.’
Lysael turned to a tray and filled three carved wooden goblets with sweet red wine. Ulysan rose and bowed his head as she offered one to him. Auum raised his goblet and muttered a prayer of thanks before taking a sip.