‘Your brother was right about that, just as he was right about many things.’
‘I can’t feel him,’ said Rebraal. ‘Is he safe?’
Auum sighed and shook his head. ‘We none of us can feel those we love. Last time it was the same. The dead were not safe. Many were lost to Shorth, never to be found again. I’m sorry.’
Expectant noise rippled across the crowd in the Caeyin. Robed elves hurried hither and thither across the stage. Auum trotted back out into the light. The TaiGethen arrived thus far assembled behind him.
‘It’s the priests,’ said one.
‘Early,’ said Ghaal in Auum’s ear.
‘That cannot be good,’ said Miirt.
A crescent of Al-Arynaar warriors and mages was advancing down the wide central aisle of the Caeyin. Behind them came seven separate groups of priests and attendants, each one guarded by two TaiGethen cells. At the rear, more Al-Arynaar. Auum could just see the silhouettes of ClawBound pairs at the entrance to the bowl. And at the head of the cliffs all around the Caeyin, more ClawBound appeared. Sentinels and messengers, waiting.
Auum spared the time to wish he were up there in glorious solitude rather than in front of a crowd that was swelling every moment.
‘They are not all here,’ said Ghaal. He pointed out into the midst of the approaching priests. ‘Ryish is missing.’
‘I expected it to be so,’ said Auum. ‘He would not leave his temple, not while the path to Shorth is obscured. We must assume he is lost.’
Quiet replaced expectancy. Out there, where the knowledge of why they had been summoned to the Harkening was incomplete, the nervousness was beginning to grow. For many, the significance of the priests’ early arrival was not lost. And anyone who cared to look at the stage to see it filling with TaiGethen and Al-Arynaar would be forgetting the food they had thought to cook. The last time Auum had been in the presence of so many of the warrior castes, they had been about to sail for Balaia. So it would be again.
When they reached the stone apron in front of the stage, the Al-Arynaar fanned out to guard its periphery. The apron, a huge slab of granite laid by the Gods, was carved with the elven religious hierarchy, depicting its many glories. Each group of priests moved to pray by its God’s symbols and images.
Yniss, father of them all; Tual, of the forest denizens; Gyal, of the rain; Beeth, of root and branch; Orra, of the earth’s lifeblood; Cefu, of the canopy, Ix, god of mana. All were represented, leaving a hole at their centre where Ryish should have been standing.
Everyone dropped to their knees, fingers grasping the ground or palms raised to the sky, spread like branches or covering their faces. Each elf was drawn to a lesser god in addition to Yniss. Each elf prayed. Whispering and chanting grew in harmony, amplified by the rock walls of the Caeyin. Caressing the mind and soothing away ache, pain and fear. Auum shed a tear for the beauty of the moment and for the knowledge that precious few remained.
While the prayers continued, the high priests moved onto the stage. Each wore robes of a single, simple colour and carried the words that blessed them with their authority sewn onto their robes and written in the leather-bound volumes in their arms. Auum felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up.
‘My Lord Auum, it is with gladness that I see you and with desolation that I know why.’
Lysael, High Priest of Yniss, had always been possessed of a beautiful voice. Beauty that spread to her face and the shape of her gentle hands.
‘Yniss keep you, Lysael. I am relieved you are here.’
‘Stand, Auum; you and your TaiGethen have no need to kneel before anyone, least of all the mere mouthpiece of a God.’
Auum stood and the two embraced. From the crowd he could hear cheering, and the chanting in the name of Yniss grew louder. Lysael kissed his forehead and stepped back. Her expression brought fresh tears to Auum’s eyes.
‘We cannot wait until the appointed day to perform this Harkening, ’ she said. ‘Let the ClawBound sing now.’
‘It will be done. And we’ll talk later.’
Auum moved past her to the front and centre of the stage. Few probably noticed him. Most were still engaged in prayer, chant and song celebrating the arrival of their priests. All but ignored, Auum turned to face the stone at the back of the Caeyin, spread his arms wide, tipped back his head and called to the ClawBound.
‘Jal-ea! Jal-ea! Jal-ea.’
On the second repetition, he held the ‘a’. The note boomed around the bowl, flying up the walls and into the darkening sky. It stilled song and chant and reduced prayer to a whisper. A ripple fled across the crowd and the ClawBound sang the final call to the Harkening.
It had no words. From the mouths of the panthers came a circulating low growl that echoed and layered in melancholy, from the Bound elves a sound from the top of the throat that ran up and down a scale of high pitch, modulating and harmonising. It cut through the air. It would travel through roof and wall. It would traverse the harbour and penetrate the timbers of every ship. None within earshot who heard it would deny the call. They could not.
The ClawBound would sing until night was full. And then all the elves gathered at Ultan-in-Caeyin would hear their fate.
Denser was aware that the four of them were attracting considerable attention. In one respect, it was what he wanted. The citizens needed to see their rulers taking the short walk along The Thread up to the Mount of Xetesk in apparent calm. Yet there was no disguising the tension that pervaded the streets. It had deepened even in the short time he had been in The Raven’s Rest.
The walk was uncomfortable. Hirad, naturally, was not helping in the slightest, and this stressful stroll was banishing any lingering doubts that he was who he affirmed.
‘For the last time, will you get your finger out of that wound?’ hissed Denser.
Hirad was grinning at the disgusted expressions on the faces of those for whom he had been staging his little demonstration. Again.
‘Sorry, my Lord Xetesk-man.’
‘And stop calling me that.’
‘Age hasn’t stopped you being grumpy, has it? Made it worse if anything.’
Hirad came to his shoulder. Denser glanced at Sol, who was walking slightly behind with Diera and fielding questions from those brave enough to approach him.
‘Yes, we do have reports. And the man next to our Lord of the Mount does claim to be one of them and we are going to ascertain his truth or falsehood. There will be a full statement nailed to every notice board in the city by dawn tomorrow. Please, until then, there is no need for fear. Xetesk will protect you whatever the outcome.’
Denser gripped Hirad’s arm. ‘Don’t you say a damned thing.’
‘I’m hurt,’ said Hirad. ‘I remember being known as the soul of discretion.’
Denser upped his pace a little. ‘Even for you, that is a poor joke. This is serious, Hirad. Let Sol do his job and we’ll talk about something else.’
‘All right. How by every God crying did two members of The Raven end up as Lord of the Mount and, unbelievably, king, respectively?’
‘You know neither of us really wanted what happened after the demons were beaten,’ said Denser.
He felt cold. It was always the same when the dark days resurfaced in his mind.
‘I believe that of Sol. Not so sure about you,’ said Hirad.
‘I’m really disappointed you think that of me.’
‘Oh come on, Denser. I may have spent my youth in the wilds of Rache and my best years trying not to die but I did pause to look around once in a while. And even I know that every Xeteskian mage aspires to the Mount. Why are you different?’
‘I’m not. And yes, I did aspire to the Mount but not in the way it happened. Because I didn’t want The Raven to be gone. But it has gone and we move on. And does not every man aspire to be king? To rule others?’
Hirad jerked a thumb at Sol. ‘In his case, no. Seems to me you’ve been shut in the Mount for too long.’
‘Seems to me you haven’t been dead long enough.’
