A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1) (5 page)

Estarinel hardly realised he had been chosen until Arlena exclaimed ‘Oh E'rinel!’ and Englirion was there in front of him, saying, ‘The lodestone pointed to you. Are you willing to go?’

‘Yes,’ he said blankly. And he thought of all the malignant evil that the Worm had brought and left behind, Falin’s mother trying to ‘frighten it away’ as if it were a crow, his father’s fever, Sinmiel – and he knew that he had to take action, that he could not remain behind waiting, waiting, waiting for the Worm to decide Forluin’s fate.

‘Yes. I am afraid to go, but I will.’

Preparations were made. The ship from An’raaga had returned, and this was the ship they took. It was built to hold ten horses, and was small and seaworthy. The only horse it carried on this journey was Estarinel’s stallion Shaell.

Englirion spoke to him in private, telling him of Filitha’s words, and of Eldor – for he had once met the sage. He explained that Forluin would see him as their sole hope; and that it was a perilous and grave journey upon which he embarked. Estarinel by now felt only numb, for he had already felt too much. He knew the grief his family would suffer if he should go and not return; and he knew he was stepping into the terrifying unknown.

He was to take four companions with him to the House of Rede. Falin and Arlena went gladly; but when he asked Lilithea, tears came to her eyes.

‘I cannot go; I can’t bear you to leave without me, but I am a healer, and people are sick, and I must try to help them.’ She hung her head, fighting tears for a few seconds, then she said, ‘Come back safely, E’rinel,’ and walked away.

Lothwyn wished to stay with their parents, for their father was now very ill. Eventually Estarinel took two of the crew who had been to An’raaga, for they were so distressed at the state of Forluin that they wished to be away again, and they knew how the ship handled. They were a blond man, Edrien, and a chestnut-haired woman, Luatha. He had met them because, in spite of the Serpent, they had gone to his mother to apologise that there was no Gorethrian horse for her.

A sword had to be fashioned for Estarinel, for there were few weapons on Forluin. They were given travelling clothes and provisions; and as they set sail there were blessings and tears from all. And they had just heard that Englirion had died of the Serpent-fever.

The Worm’s attack was weeks ago now. Yet the gloom and its stench had not lifted; no new growth had appeared on the devastated land. Many people were in the grip of a fatal fever, others in danger of starvation because of the ruined crops.

This was the country that Estarinel watched slipping over the rim of the horizon; his home, which had always been green and its people loving and joyful. He might not see it again, either in its present state or in its old, true one. And his misery was so great that it seemed to be outside him, so he thought he felt nothing.

As Estarinel finished the tale he was shaken to see how little the Gorethrian Prince and the Alaakian woman reacted; they hardly seemed moved by what was to him a monstrous tragedy. And these are to be my companions, he thought, these people who do not care.

Then Ashurek spoke.

‘I shall not comment on your story, because I do not expect comments on mine. Make of it what you will; it is a wild and evil tale, but true in every word.’

So Estarinel and Medrian heard a history that no one, not even Eldor, knew in full; and that was the story of Ashurek, Prince of Gorethria.

Gorethria was a bizarre and beautiful country that had spawned an equally strange people. They were tall, slim, graceful, and deep purple-brown of skin; their hair was black and worn long; they dressed ornately and were beardless; and their eyes were many-coloured and brooding. They loved beauty and brilliance; they were intelligent and creative, strong willed, loyal to their country – but they were an arrogant and pitiless race.

For over a thousand years they had subjugated the entire continent once known as Vardrav, now called the Gorethrian Empire. Their almost aesthetic delight in war and bloodshed and the fanatical precision of their strategy had meant that stronger but less finely-honed civilizations than theirs had fallen before their cruel armies. Their inborn ruthlessness and power of invention had kept those countries under Gorethria’s dark control ever since.

Ashurek’s father, Ordek XIV, had been Emperor of this vast, darkly shining realm. He was an extraordinary man, Ashurek remembered, as brilliant, fierce and unapproachable as a leopard, yet also wise and fair, and a loving father to his children. He had ruled the Empire well, consolidating many tentative conquests without causing much unnecessary bloodshed, and improving communications across the continent. Under him the Empire was stable.

Ashurek could not think of his father without bitter sadness. Ordek, the last Gorethrian worthy of admiration and respect. Then the vultures had come, in the form of his own children, to tear everything he had built up into bloody pieces.

Ashurek also remembered his mother, the Empress Melkish, with love and sorrow. True, she had been in some ways eccentric and cruel – was she not a Gorethrian? – but it was a loving, gracious woman that he remembered.

She and Ordek had three children. Ashurek and Meshurek were twins, but Meshurek, being the first-born, was heir to the throne. Their younger sister was named Orkesh.

How innocent can a Gorethrian be? Only in so far as he is ignorant of his own guilt – of the part his inborn sense of superiority and cleverness has played, or will play, in the cruel subjugation of other races. Yet Ashurek could remember a time – it had seemed infinite, stretching from horizon to horizon – when he had been, or at least had felt, innocent.

His earliest memories were of colour and brilliance. Courtiers moving through the marble halls of the palace, their dark skins like satin and perfumed with sandalwood and amber, dressed in reds and greens and golds, as jewel-like as tropical fish. The porcelain-white spires of the palace glittering under the burning sun as endless processions marched past – war-horses dancing like living fire in their purple, white and gold trappings. Soldiers, seeming to Ashurek alive with some dark, invincible strength, whose jet armour was as full of scintillating colour as black opal. Banners of silk, the cheering of dazzlingly-dressed crowds, and above all the majesty of his parents, who seemed brighter than the sun on such occasions.

Growing up amid the excitement and beauty of life in Gorethria’s greatest city, Shalekahh, and being trained from birth to fit naturally into his role as one of the country’s foremost statesmen, the palace lifestyle seemed to Ashurek as easy and invigorating as breathing. The army represented something desirable, wondrous in its mystery. If someone had explained to him the reality of their work – the fear, pain and misery they inflicted – it would have meant nothing to him. He had seen pain. It was a royal pastime to hunt a human – say an insubordinate slave – through the woods like a fox, and as soon as he and his brother and sister were old enough to ride, they were allowed to follow the chase. Pain was something to be inflicted on lesser beings to make them understand Gorethria’s supremacy.

And his parents – his mother, she who had personally stabbed a bringer of bad news and caused the floor to be inlaid with gold where his blood had fallen, and his father, he who had brought the ‘King’ of a distant country, who had begged for independence, back to Shalekahh and had him tortured to death in public – they were to be emulated, not feared. It was for lesser mortals to fear them. Their splendour – Gorethria’s splendour – eclipsed all else, justified every act.

Ashurek remembered being happy. He was certainly not unaware, as he reached adolescence, of how lucky he was to have been born into a life so full of glory, excitement and power. He recalled feeling actual pleasure when his father found time to speak to him. He remembered the dark elegance of his mother, the secret smiles she kept only for him, and how he used to talk and laugh with his sister, Orkesh, as they strolled through the vast palace gardens. What did we find to smile and laugh about? he sometimes thought bitterly. How clever we were, or how unthinkingly cruel? No, he thought. I can’t remember, except that sometimes it was about Meshurek. There’s no expression of emotion black enough for me to mourn him, to mourn all of them. Even weeping would seem like laughter.

His twin brother Meshurek, heir to Ordek’s throne, was the only being that marred Ashurek’s childhood and adolescence. Some twist in Meshurek’s personality made him a jealous and insecure child. He lacked the confident, extrovert nature of Ashurek and Orkesh, and he suffered dark moods in which no one could reach him. He lacked Ashurek’s skill at sport, riding and weaponry, and he knew, although they tried not to show it, that his parents preferred Ashurek. Slowly his envy became obsessive. Frantic to prove to the Emperor and Empress that he was as good as Ashurek, he would challenge him to races or fights which he then tried to win by trickery. Ashurek took it all in good humour, often saw through the deception, and usually won anyway. Meshurek would be left feeling foolish and angry as his brother walked away with what appeared to be a mocking smile.

Ashurek did not mean to mock his brother. In fact, he loved him, and found his envy incomprehensible. There was no point in letting Meshurek think he could win; better to make a joke of it, and perhaps one day Meshurek would laugh too.

But to Meshurek it was no joke. He had no sense of humour; only paranoia, and a painful awareness of his own failings. He was a tongue-tied, physically awkward boy, and although the courtiers only said it in whispers behind the unfortunate Prince Meshurek’s back, it was no surprise to him when he eventually overheard that they, and the general populace, thought he was an unfit heir to the throne and a shame that Prince Ashurek had not been born first.

Meshurek sank deeper into his fears. He became obsessed with the idea that his parents would oust him, even murder him, and make Ashurek heir. He convinced himself that Ashurek hated him. Paranoia ate at him like insatiable hunger.

But he was wrong. None of his family hated him, although they hesitated to show him love because he often reacted with hostile resentment. The laws of succession were strict, and Ordek in fact believed Meshurek would make an adequate Emperor, being of above average intelligence and a well-read boy. He had plans for Ashurek other than having him take a throne to which he was not entitled.

Even if the Emperor had explained this to Meshurek, he would not have believed it. His obsession had gone too far; his imagined fears had become real to him. By the time he was thirteen he was convinced there was a plot to remove him.

But he was Gorethrian. Though lacking in some ways, he had all the royal Gorethrian traits of cleverness, determination and desire for power. As he matured he realised that fighting Ashurek openly was pointless. He had to seek his own way to victory, and this he did by immersing himself in the things at which he excelled: reading and learning. He spent all his spare hours in the palace library. His awkwardness was replaced by a kind of malicious charm, which, once perfected, he knew would make him far more acceptable in court and in public. And he sought for himself some sort of weapon, against the day when he would have to fight for the throne.

Ashurek was relieved when Meshurek apparently found his feet at last. He was a changed youth; he had found his own interests, and showed all the brotherly affection Ashurek could hope for. Ashurek did not bother to look any deeper, because he had other, more exciting things to concern him. He was simply glad not to worry about his brother’s problems any longer.

The Emperor Ordek had had Ashurek well trained in all the arts of soldiery, and the young Prince showed more skill, enthusiasm and inspiration than his father could have hoped for. His plan was for Ashurek to become, eventually, High Commander of the Gorethrian army. That way, true power would be in Ashurek’s obviously capable hands and his insight, coupled with Meshurek’s knowledge, would make them an excellent team. The Empire would be safe for years to come; and that was Ordek XIV’s true purpose; to safeguard the future.

At sixteen, Ashurek went away with the army for the first time, under the wing of an experienced, loyal General from Ordek’s personal guard. Army life was everything he had dreamed of; and most importantly, he discovered that the subjects of the Empire were far from meek or abject. There was still a challenge, and work for the army to do.

Ordek and Melkish were delighted with the way he had taken to army life. He went on many forays and missions and was made an officer at the age of eighteen. Long tours of the Empire meant he did not see Meshurek or Orkesh for many months at a time, but they still heard of his exploits as the praises of the young, brilliant Prince Ashurek were sung in Shalekahh.

Meshurek’s jealousy grew darker. Even when Ashurek was not there, Meshurek must suffer to hear how wonderful and how much better than him his brother was. Perceiving that he would spend a lifetime being eclipsed by Ashurek’s achievements, even when he became Emperor, he spent many weeks pondering upon the knowledge he had found, how to gain his weapon and how he would use it. At last he made his decision, and set to work.

And from that moment, the Empire was doomed.

Ashurek was only twenty-one when Ordek deemed him ready to be made High Commander. He was very young, true; but it was not unusual for an Emperor’s son to be given such a high position of responsibility so early. He was well prepared and more than able to do the job; and most important, he was very popular. The people and the army loved him. Even Ordek sometimes mused that Ashurek would have made an excellent Emperor.

So Ashurek rode back into the shining, porcelain-delicate city of Shalekahh beside the retiring Commander, a white-haired man who had given many years of stolid service. They headed a column of cavalry mounted on the copper-and-fire horses he had so longed for as a child. Crowds lining the streets gave them such a rapturous welcome that, by the time Ashurek reached the white gates of the palace, he was moved to tears. Involuntarily, he thought of Meshurek and began to comprehend his jealousy. He never received more than a token cheer in public; and this adulation was good, worth having. Suddenly aggravated, almost embarrassed by the adoring shouts which he surely no more deserved than Meshurek did, Ashurek left his lathered horse with a groom and went brusquely into the palace alone.

He was exhausted from the long ride. He knew his family was awaiting him in the throne room, but he could not face them yet. He sent a servant to apologise for him, and went alone to his room to strip off the dusty war-gear and bathe; and then he sought out his sister, Orkesh and took her out into the palace gardens. They walked in silence along the avenues between pale fountains and lush sanguine flowers for a long time.

Eventually Orkesh said, ‘Aren’t you happy?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘You’re quiet – depressed. Most unlike you – and why didn’t you want to see mother and father?’

‘I’m tired. There’s time enough for that later. I need to be on my own for a while.’

‘I’m with you!’ said Orkesh with mock indignation.

‘You’re different. You soothe me.’ She shone a white smile at him and he grinned back, grateful for her gentle presence, her slim, dark, graceful form and the shared secrets in her brilliant green eyes.

‘So – how have things been while I was away?’ Ashurek asked.

He noticed a brief hesitation before she replied light-heartedly, ‘Oh, as always. They are building a new castle on the coast of Terthria – mother has been supervising that. I’ve been sent to preside at several dreary banquets for visiting nobles. I think they’re trying to marry me off, but I’m happy as I am, except when you’re away.’

‘And how is Meshurek?’

Again a hesitation. ‘Mother and father think he is making excellent progress. They’re too busy to look underneath. He seems to have changed for the better – you know, he is confident and full of ideas – the new castle was one of his – but something is not right with him.’

‘He’s always been… difficult,’ said Ashurek. ‘Do you mean he is worse, ill perhaps?’

‘Not ill,’ Orkesh replied thoughtfully. ‘On the contrary, he’s never seemed better; quite articulate and charming. It’s the way others react to him. Servants, courtiers, messengers, even the various cousins and uncles who know him well – they don’t like him. No one likes him, and believe me, it is no secret that everyone wishes he was not going to be their Emperor one day.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ Ashurek said sharply. ‘Anyway, they have no choice – and no right to speak against him.’

‘Oh, you’re as bad as father.’ Orkesh began to tease her brother. ‘Can you honestly say you would not like to be Emperor? Ah – but what an Empress I’d make. It’s time Gorethria had an Empress again. We could easily dispose of Meshurek – ah, but then I’d have to murder you, too, to achieve my ambition.’