Elyon shook his head. “My father…”
“Will fall, in time. He may take longer to do so, but eventually, even he will succumb. The blades must be brought to me before that happens. We do not have very much time, Elyon. The shadow is stirring, and my strength…it is waning.”
“It’s time to let it go, boy,” Fhanrir said. “You’ve killed a dragon or two…good for you. But nothing you’re doing’s making a blind bit of difference. So you bring it here.”
“But…”
“But you won’t. Because you’re frightened. Just a frightened little boy afraid to lose his favourite toy. You like flying, don’t you, boy? You like being up there in the skies, looking down on everyone else.” Fhanrir sneered at him in disgust. “Monsort, go back to the refuge and get it. If he tries to stop you, run him through.”
Sir Mallister balked. “My lord?”
“You deaf as well as stupid? You heard me.”
“I…” Mallister looked at Elyon, alarmed, and then Ilith, desperate. “My lord…?”
“Don’t look at him. You look at me, Monsort.” And he did, unable to resist the power of the mage’s voice. “Aye, you’re serving us now. You’re here to protect us from dark forces at the door, and this man…” He pointed at Elyon. “Oh, there’s a darkness in him. So you know what to do, don’t you? There’s a monster in our midst and he needs slaying…”
“Enough,” Ilith said. “Fhanrir, enough. You have made your point.”
Fhanrir sniffed. “I’ve more to say.”
“You’ve said plenty. Wait outside, both of you. I would speak with Elyon alone.”
“Fine.” The mage clipped his fingers at Mallister as though he was a dog. “Come, boy. Seems we’re not wanted here.” They left through the door, moving out into the corridor.
Silence filled the air at their parting. It lasted a while.
“Elyon,” Ilith said softly. “Look at me, child.”
Elyon’s eyes were down, lowered in shame at Fhanrir’s rebuke. He did not feel the prince anymore, nor the champion, no Master of Winds and Lord of the Skies and serial slayer of Agarath’s spawn. Just a boy, as the mage kept calling him, a silly boy with a head full of dreams. Slowly, he raised his eyes.
“We all stumble occasionally, Elyon,” Ilith whispered. “We may trip and even lose our footing, but that does not mean we must fall. Fhanrir prods and probes in order to unveil your weakness, but in doing so, I can see your strength.” He stepped closer to him. Elyon could feel the warmth of his radiance, his divinity. Callused hands came up to rest on his shoulders. Ilith was not tall, not in the body of Tyrith. But he seemed a giant to Elyon all the same. “You hold no avarice in you, child. You have no great want of honours and spoils and to you the triumphs of battle have grown stale. You act selflessly, and for others. You love, and you care, and you are not given to self-conceit or pride. These qualities will stand you in good stead. They are a shield of light against the darkness…and I believe in you, Elyon Daecar.”
The words were like sudden sunlight piercing the storm, bathing Elyon in their glow. “You…you believe in me, my lord?”
“I do. I believe in you, and I will trust you. But that is not enough. You must believe and trust in yourself.” He paused, searching his silver-blue eyes. “Do you?”
Fhanrir had stricken him with doubt, but Ilith had blown it away like autumn leaves in a fierce gust of wind. He believes in me. The king who built the world. Ilith had spoken of wonders earlier. The greatest wonder in all history was him. “I…I do, my lord,” Elyon croaked. Ilith’s faith was like a new suit of armour, stronger than anything he wore. “Now…now I do.”
Ilith gave a tender smile. “Good. That is all I wanted to hear. So you go, and do what you must. Fulfil your quest, and be a hero to those who need you. I will trust you to bring me the Windblade when the time is right.”
Elyon drew a breath. “I will not let you down, Lord Ilith.” He spoke with great gravity. “I promise it. I won’t.”
“I know, Elyon. You won’t. Because you know what will happen if you do.”
He did. He knew.
“You have much to do, Elyon Daecar. This I know as well; I can see it in your heart. A great list, a great burden, such a weight to carry. But…if I may…permit me to lay one last task upon your table?”
Elyon went down to a knee. “Of course, my lord. Anything.”
“Smile,” the Worldbuilder said. He reached down and put a hand to Elyon’s bearded cheek. “A world without smiles is not one I care to live in, Elyon . So go from here with a smile on your lips, and remember why you’re fighting. You will feel better for it, I promise.”
Elyon stood, and as he did so, a true smile touched his lips.
“Well,” Ilith whispered, smiling fondly as well. “Now isn’t that better? Is not a smile a touch of light, ushered from the soul?”
Elyon could not agree with the demigod more. Light from the soul, he thought. It was one request he was happy to fulfil.
30
The air was still thick with the stink of smoke, and ash coated the cobbles like new fallen snow.
Amron Daecar sat in the saddle atop Wolfsbane, his mighty black destrier, staring out across the docks of Green Harbour. Scores of ships lay twisted and broken in the water, masts poking up from the depths in a horror of grasping, blackened fingers. Through the swirling smog, it was hard to make out their colours, though here and there a tattered length of sail flapped and fluttered, in black and red and gold.
“How many were there?” Amron asked. He was trying to get a count of the Agarathi ships, but that was proving impossible in this smog. It was more than just the fume of smoke that had risen from the burning corpse of the city, and those ships. This was a coastal mist, thick and unnatural like the rains. And cold, Amron thought. They were a hundred leagues northwest of King’s Point here and he could feel the bitter chill in the air. “We heard an armada of eighty vessels was bearing down on you, Sir Harold. Was that number correct?”
Sir Harold Conwyn confirmed with a stiff nod. He was a short man of three and thirty with a broad nose, large red cheeks, and short, stubbly beard. One of Randall Borrington’s knights, Amron knew. He had met Conwyn several times in the past and found him a genial sort. “Eighty would be about right, my lord.”
“Most are burned,” the Ironfoot observed, glaring out at the ships. “Was it you or them that did that?”
Sir Harold seemed confused by the question. “My lord?”
Amron explained. “What Lord Grave means to ask is…did you burn the ships with your defensive weapons, or were the dragons to blame?”
That did not much allay the knight’s confusion. “The dragons? No, my lords, the dragons wouldn’t burn their own ships.” He seemed bemused by the suggestion.
