twenty elves in the main chamber. The place was a mess. Blankets, discarded clothing and food, waterskins and rubbish were scattered across the floor. Sildaan picked her way towards the stage.
‘Don’t get too far ahead,’ said Garan. He turned and shouted outside. ‘Squads ten, eleven, twelve. Room to room. Move.’
More men ran inside, mages in the wake of swordsmen. Arrows flicked down from above, from the rafters where the TaiGethen used to hide. Garan did not flinch where Sildaan ducked reflexively, hands over her face. Garan stared up. There were multiple shapes of elves up there. He crooked a finger at them, speaking in clear common elvish.
‘Best come down before we shoot you down. You cannot harm us but we can certainly harm you. It’s your choice.’ He waved a mage to him. ‘Keep this chamber shielded. I don’t care if they make a stand up there or not. It doesn’t go well for them whichever way it works.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sildaan looked up to the rafters. Those staring down at her did so with eyes that hated, eyes that found it hard to accept their betrayal. Desperate, hopeless eyes.
‘Do as he says,’ she called. ‘It’s too late to resist.’
Hithuur was at her shoulder. He was looking at the partially scorched tapestries.
‘We should keep these,’ he said.
‘Whatever for?’ asked Sildaan.
‘They are part of our history.’
Sildaan made a dismissive noise and pointed towards the administration and records offices through the back of the stage. She could hear a little fighting and a great deal of shouting and pleading.
‘Through there, that’s our history. At the museums, that’s our history. These… these are lies, the invention of a romantic story-teller. They will burn.’ Sildaan sat alone on the steps of the Gardaryn. Through the long hours of sunshine and torrential rain, the records of a nation had been removed box by box from the building, loaded onto requisitioned carts and driven away under guard to the temple of Shorth. And during a day that was declining towards an angry, clouded dusk, the crowds had thickened on the piazza and all approaches to the Gardaryn. Word had travelled quickly. Elves of all threads thronged to see the emptying of their most loved building. They’d tried storming the magical barriers. They’d tried deputations of protest and reason. She had refused to treat with any of them.
Most of them now stood silent or in prayer. Occasionally, a chant would grow, one of the old chants denouncing the Ynissul, demanding freedom and equality of power. Loud, emotional chants from the mouths of what had to be fifteen to twenty thousand elves. But futile.
Garan sat down beside her. His men were moving the last of the records from front and rear, each box making a further statement to the mass before them.
‘Where were they all hiding?’
Sildaan shrugged. ‘At home, I guess. Funny, isn’t it? Hithuur said it felt like the whole city had taken up arms and joined the mobs when Takaar was denounced, but it was hardly any of them really, was it? Most of them stayed home, unless they were forced to move, and hoped it would all blow over.’
‘Why did they think that?’
Garan appeared genuinely interested. Sildaan shrugged again.
‘We’ve had troubles before. We’re complex in some ways and ever so simple in others. But there’s always been a minority prepared to riot or march any time anything goes astray. We’ve had trouble with food shortages – unbelievable you’d think with the ocean here and the rainforest there – but it’s true. We’ve had very unpopular building and tax laws and we’ve had stringent preservation laws passed too. That’s to name but a few.
‘But there’s always been the Al-Arynaar to restore order and the Gardaryn in which to protest and hold the government and the priesthood to account. Now there isn’t, and they’re just beginning to understand that things are changing for good. This strikes so deep at the elven soul that I’m surprised so many didn’t feel it more plainly. But that’s elves for you. Close their eyes, most of them, and pray the nightmare is gone by the morning.’
‘Not this time,’ said Garan.
‘No indeed,’ said Sildaan. ‘How much longer?’
‘We’re almost done.’
‘Good. I don’t want the rain to spoil the show.’
Garan laughed. ‘Mage fire cares not if it rains or shines, my priest.’
Sildaan was worried by that statement and wasn’t completely sure why. Behind her, Keller sauntered out of the Gardaryn. He nodded at her.
‘Empty,’ he said. ‘What’s next.’
‘Fireworks,’ said Garan, getting up and brushing himself down. ‘Sildaan, is the order given?’
Sildaan stood too. She gazed up at the beauty of the Gardaryn, the beetle. A thousand years of debate and, yes, she supposed, history. Obsolete now and a dangerous symbol of a way of life that had to change. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes briefly.
‘It is.’
‘Right. Keller, over to you. Set inside and out. I want this inferno seen from Balaia.’
‘Consider it done.’
Sildaan stood. ‘You’re sure they’ll hear me? You’re sure I’ll be safe?’
‘This is going to be something no one will ever forget.’
And so it was that Sildaan stood on the steps of the Gardaryn a short while later. Above her, Gyal’s tears fell with outraged ferocity. Behind her, the flames of the Gardaryn, tinged with the brown colour of human magic, roared into the dark sky. In front of her, twenty thousand elves howled their fury, impotent to act, helpless to save their most beloved building. And when she opened her mouth, with spell shields behind her keeping back the fires and more spells cast to amplify her every word, her voice echoed across the piazza and out into the city.
‘Elves of Ysundeneth, hear me. Those of you in front of me now and locked terrified in your homes or cast out onto the streets. Hear me. I am Sildaan, scripture priest of Aryndeneth. I am the mouthpiece of Llyron, high priest of Shorth, who is, from this moment on, ruler of the elven nation of Calaius.’
The statement stilled the howling of the crowd more surely than Yniss appearing before them and putting a finger to his lips. The drumming of the rain and the hissing and roaring of the Gardaryn as it burned were thundering background to Sildaan’s oration.
‘The harmony is dead. The fragile belief held by many against the true nature of the elf has been torn to shreds. The true nature of Takaar, he who once walked with gods, has been revealed, and he has rightly been denounced along with his laws. We have all seen in the past days the real soul of the elf. It is in separation. It is in every thread to their own community. It is in power based on longevity.
‘The Ynissul were put here by Yniss himself to rule. Wisdom can only be built by the immortal. Wisdom that can bring genuine peace to our race can only be handed down by those who have lived long enough to understand it. Elves have lived for a thousand years with the knowledge that those of other threads who deal with them do so through a thin veneer of brotherhood.
‘Order, from this moment forth, will be restored. There will be no further violence between the threads. Know this. Those working for the Ynissul have the authority to act with any force necessary to keep the peace in our streets.
‘Go back to your homes and wait for instructions. Know this. Until we re-establish the markets, your food and clothing and other essential needs will be serviced centrally by the harbour master. The operation of black markets and other measures of extortion amongst threads will be dealt with severely. Expect announcements on the living quarters for each thread. Some of you will be relocated. I suggest you gather all that is valuable to you or risk losing it.
‘Assets no longer in your gift if your thread is short-lived will be returned to the Ynissul for correct distribution as status demands. Other announcements will follow regarding employment and access to areas of the city, the temples and the rainforest. Any of you living in a mixed-thread partnership will be separated and your bastard offspring given to the temple of Shorth for education.
‘You have all read the history of our race. You have all heard the stories. Yniss created this earth and the lesser gods to serve him. He created the Ynissul to rule the elves and the lesser threads to serve them. So shall it be again. So it is from this day forward.
