Boltha raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Has anyone told Auum?’
‘Auum hasn’t been here in over fifty years. No TaiGethen come here.’ Methian sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I do not mean to bait you.’
Boltha smiled. ‘You and I will always clash, as our threads dictate. So why did you invite me on this hike with you? Not to recreate our journeys of past years, I’m sure.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Methian. ‘Come, let’s sit. I’ve got some rather good spirit and some bread, tapir and dried fruit too.’
‘I knew I could rely on you,’ said Boltha.
The old Apposan, still strong of arm, chopped some scrub and vines away from a fallen log and the two old friends sat. Methian reached into his backpack and passed Boltha a clay jug stoppered with a wood plug.
‘Sip it,’ he said. ‘Strong stuff.’
Boltha took a swallow. He breathed in slowly and Methian smiled as he imagined the liquid burning its way down his throat.
‘Where does that come from?’ said Boltha. ‘Tastes a bit like yams.’
‘Yes, but we’ve distilled it with guarana. Makes you drunk but you don’t want to sleep. Helps with the headache next day, too.’
Boltha took another sip and passed the jug back to Methian.
‘At least you haven’t wasted your whole life.’
Methian sniffed the jug before wetting his lips with the spirit and then letting a long trickle run down his throat.
‘I’m old, Boltha,’ he said once he’d stoppered the jug and fished in his pack for the bread and meat. ‘But I’ve only just begun feeling it. I was a warrior of the Al-Arynaar for over three hundred years and I am as proud of that as I am of being Gyalan.
‘I’ve seen the very best of the elven spirit and believed that we were genuinely entering a golden age of harmony and progress. But the last years have been relentless decline and conflict and I find I cannot accept that as the epitaph of my life in service.’
‘Why do you think I took my leave? Katura is a cancer.’
‘Yes!’ said Methian, and he felt the spirit coursing round his blood energising him. ‘And it must be excised.’
‘So talk to your erstwhile leader, if she ever returns to lucidity. How many Al-Arynaar still wear the cloak?’
‘Who knows? We probably have fewer warriors than the TaiGethen for the first time in elven history. Not even enough to police a city of twenty thousand.’
‘And growing fewer every day…’ said Boltha.
‘It has to stop, and though there is desire in the city to see it cleaned up, there is no strength.’
Boltha held up his hands. ‘I know where this is going.’
‘You are strong,’ said Methian, leaning forward and offering him dried mango which Boltha took and ate. ‘Your thread is pure. You are the thread of the axe. Others fear you, even the Tuali. Come back. Help me cleanse the city. Help me return Katura to purity. To harmony.’
‘The only way to do that is to burn the place to the ground.’
Methian shrugged. ‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘Why should I risk my people for those who cared so little for us?’
‘Because if you do not it will render everything we did when Ysundeneth fell a waste. It will render your faith a sham. And I know you, Boltha. You believe in the harmony. Help me and we can start again, to make Katura great before we die.’ Methian smiled as rain began to fall. ‘And Gyal knows neither of us has terribly long left.’
A primeval, guttural sound grew from the north. It echoed among the trees and fed up the valleys. Even beyond Katura, panthers took up the cry. Methian shuddered.
‘What is that?’
‘It’s the ClawBound. They’re calling the TaiGethen to muster.’
‘Are you sure?’
Boltha nodded and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I need to get back to Haliath.’
‘I understand,’ said Methian. ‘Think on what I’ve said. Help me. Help us all.’
The calls faded away.
‘Do you have a plan for this rebellion of yours, or whatever you call it?’
‘I know where we have to strike, if that’s what you mean.’
‘And do your enemies know you’re plotting against them?’
Methian chuckled. ‘I’m an old Gyalan. I don’t even carry a weapon any more. No one suspects me of anything barring being a grumpy old loudmouth.’
‘Well we can all agree on that.’ Boltha took Methian’s shoulders. ‘These are dangerous people you’re facing. Don’t assume you are not seen as a threat. Will the Al-Arynaar back you?’
‘I have to hope so.’
‘Good enough. Then come back with me — you’ll be safe with the Apposans until it’s time to strike.’
‘You’re with me?’
‘I can hardly let some arthritic old Gyalan get all the glory, now can I? Anyway, I don’t think I have much option.’
‘Why?’
Boltha gestured north.
‘I can only think of one reason for the ClawBound to call the TaiGethen to muster and that scares me. We need Katura to be strong, to be the sanctuary it was designed to be. If it isn’t, I fear for us. I fear we will not survive.’
Ystormun looked sick. Sicker. It was normally hard to tell, but today there was a greyness to his skin that left him looking closer to death than Sildaan had ever seen him; and she saw him every day. Such was her misfortune. Like Garan, she fervently wished for death each night when she was allowed to rest. And like Garan, Ystormun seemed to take perverse delight in keeping her alive.
Sildaan stood before the great wooden desk, awaiting questions from her human lord and master. She had resisted admitting that’s what he had become to her, but she could not escape it. She was an Ynissul who dreamed of a return to ultimate power over the elves, one who could reach out and touch it yet was an impossible distance from ever achieving it.
Punishment indeed, and Llyron should have been standing here to suffer with her, yet the former high priestess of Shorth would never do so. She had found her way to death and that had made Sildaan’s task all the harder.
So Sildaan took the brunt of his evil. She looked to her left and out into the Calaian night sky. The lantern light playing on the windows showed her a reflection of herself, and she shrank inwardly at the sight of her thinning hair, gaunt face, sunken eyes and bloodless lips. Her ears, so delicate, were bent at the tips like an elf a thousand years her elder. She still remembered the strength of her arms and the power in her heart and mind. Proud Ynissul, now laid so low. Such was the price of her god casting her aside. Sildaan could not contain the whimper that escaped her lips. She turned away from the window.
In front of her, Ystormun dragged in a shuddering breath. He was in pain. His hands shook and there was sweat on his brow. Veins pulsed at his temples. He opened his eyes. Sildaan gasped. They were white. No pupil whatsoever. Yet he could see her and the man who stood by her. He examined them while he weighed up his first words. Something moved beneath the milky whiteness and Sildaan thought she might be sick.
‘Times move ever faster,’ said Ystormun. ‘So there are things I must know.’
Ystormun’s voice was altered, discordant as if he was speaking with multiple tongues, all of which moved in fractionally different ways to form the same words.
‘What must you know, Lord Ystormun?’ asked the man, who was profoundly lucky to be alive and standing in his presence.
‘Ah. Jeral. Reprieved by the mercy of an animal, were you not? I would ask how is it that with the strength of mages and warriors you had under your command you were unable to defeat weaponless elves and their feline pets. But I am sure I would hear useless talk of speed and stealth and the forest shadows. Instead, I will ask you about the only point of interest in your entire report.’
Ystormun wafted a hand at a single roll of paper.
‘It is an honest report.’
‘Yes, detailing incompetence, slack management and ignorance of the first rule of handling Sharps in the field. Always keep a mage in the air. Now tell me, Jeral, your report mentions that the elves and their panthers worked in harmony. ‘‘Like they were of one mind’’ were your exact words. Explain.’