‘I have no doubt of it.’
‘Make no mistake, Caradryel of Faer-Lyen: when in the right mood, the Lord Imladrik is the most dangerous warrior of this age of the world. Though I may not look it, I have strengths of my own and am quite capable of visiting retribution on those who would harm us. We make a formidable pairing, and we will continue to do so, whatever fleeting difficulties may come between us. You should be aware of this before agreeing to take the assignment. You should be aware of your peril.’
Caradryel had to fight to stop himself smiling. The notion, so recently entertained, that he might struggle with boredom over the coming months now seemed impossibly quaint.
‘I understand,’ he said, his face as serious as his mood was buoyant. ‘And I have already given the matter all the thought I plan to. So here is my answer: you may consider me, my lady of Tor Vael, your most humble servant.’
Liandra strode along the curving corridors of the Tower of Winds. The quality of the stonework around her was finer than at Kor Vanaeth, but still far cruder than that found in Ulthuan. Tor Alessi was the largest and the mightiest of the asur settlements in the east, but it still couldn’t mimic the elegance found in her race’s homeland. The whole place had been built for defence, with three concentric circles of high walls and heavy bulwarks over the gates, and the aesthetics had suffered as a result. The city had been besieged three times since the war had broken out and each battle had left its scars. In the lulls between fighting the walls had been made thicker and higher, every time further ruining what symmetry remained.
The Tower of Winds stood at the westernmost point of the city, where the walls ran up to the sea and enclosed the deep harbour below. It had survived mostly unscathed, being too far from the perimeter for the dawi’s catapults and stone-throwers to make much impact. Even so, the lack of finish in its interior spoke of the hard times that had fallen on the city. Metal finishings had been stripped out and melted down for weapons, glass had been pushed out of window frames and replaced with iron grilles, sacred images of the gods had been removed from their proud stations on the walls and taken into the catacombs for safekeeping. What remained in place was stark, functional, pared-down.
For all that, the white stone still shone in the light of the setting sun, and the banners of the gathered armies still fluttered proudly in the sea-wind. The city had never been more heavily populated – as the principal landing for the Phoenix King’s armies, it hummed with the constant tramp of soldiers’ boots and the clatter of unloading cargo.
Tor Alessi was battered, roughened at the edges, but still proud.
Like us all, thought Liandra.
She reached the twin doors to the Council Chamber, where two Sea Guard sentries waited on either side. They pushed the doors open immediately, and she went inside.
The Council Chamber took up the full width of the Tower’s topmost storey. The floor was polished marble, deep black and veined with silver, and the rune Ceyl had been engraved in the centre of the floor, picked out in iron and inlaid with pearl. Five thrones surrounded the rune, each one facing inwards, each hewn from obsidian and surmounted with the crest of a royal house. Sunlight poured in through narrow barred windows.
Four of the thrones were occupied: Lady Aelis of House Lamael, Lord Salendor of House Tor Achare, Lord Caerwal of House Ophel and Lord Gelthar of House Derreth. One remained to be filled.
‘Welcome, Liandra,’ said Aelis, rising from her throne. The Mistress of Tor Alessi was wand-thin, with dark hair pulled back from an austere face and bound with silver wire. ‘We are glad you decided to make us complete.’
Liandra bowed. ‘I was honoured to be asked,’ she said, taking her seat as Aelis resumed hers. ‘Have I missed much?’
‘We were waiting for you,’ said Salendor. His stocky frame made him look too big for his seat, and his dun-red cloak was still caked with mud, as were his tall leather boots. His magestaff rested loosely in his hand.
‘I came as swiftly as I could,’ she said. ‘Much needed to be done at Kor Vanaeth.’
‘You wasted your time, then,’ replied Salendor. ‘It will never stand a second attack.’
Liandra retained her composure. She knew what he was doing; in a way, it was a compliment. He tests me. He wishes only warriors on this Council.
‘We will be ready, when they come again,’ she insisted, her voice quiet but firm. ‘We have been blooded once, and may bleed again, but we will never retreat.’
They held one another’s gaze for a moment, her blue eyes locked with his. Then he grunted and looked away.
‘That is why we are all here,’ interjected Aelis calmly. ‘We know they are coming again. A month, a few weeks, maybe. The question is: how shall we respond?’
Liandra stole a glance at the other two members of the Council. Caerwal and Gelthar were both the very image of asur nobility: slim, impeccably dressed, their robes lined with gold and their lean faces placid. They did not look like they would rush into battle with the relish of Salendor. For that matter, they did not look like they would do anything with relish.
So that is how this works: Salendor and myself are the hotheads, they are the cautious, and Aelis will adjudicate.
‘We have more power in Elthin Arvan now than when the King was here,’ said Gelthar, speaking ponderously. ‘We must install
