‘This is an honour for you,’ Caledor went on. ‘The dawi are easy prey: we will have victory after victory. I have seen for myself the glory it brings. You too will earn a reception in Lothern, and they will greet you as they did me — like a god.’
‘Madness.’ The words seemed to spill out of their own accord. ‘You were barely there a year. You have seen only a tithe of their strength.’
Caledor shot him an indulgent look. ‘No doubt! No doubt there are thousands more, and you can root them out, one after the next. You can take the dragons, too, as many of them as will cross the ocean. Imagine when the dwarfs see them. I don’t think they truly realise what a weapon they are.’
‘They are not weapons,’ said Imladrik, his voice low.
‘Of course, no, they are not: they are ancient and wonderful beings. I forget that sometimes, so it is good to have you here to remind me.’
Imladrik struggled to keep his anger down, mindful of where he was and whom he spoke with. ‘I cannot go back,’ he said. ‘Not now. We are taking the war to the druchii. A thousand plans are in motion. My troops-’
‘-will serve just as ably under another commander,’ said Caledor coolly. ‘And what is this “I cannot”? Is that how you were schooled to talk to Kings?’
‘I am used to Kings making wiser choices,’ said Imladrik.
Hulviar pursed his lips. Caledor’s face went a shade paler.
‘This is not a request, brother,’ he said, his tone frostier. ‘I am still the regent of Asuryan in this realm. Unless, that is, you can think of a better candidate.’
Imladrik laughed, suddenly understanding. ‘Is that what this is about? You should find yourself abler counsellors.’ He took a stride towards Caledor, and his metal-shod boots clinked on the stone. ‘I have no desire to sit on your throne, nor to wear your crown. By the gods, I have no desire to lead armies at all — if duty did not demand it I would happily spend my days in the Dragonspine. Forget those who whisper in your ear; we are winning the war against the druchii, and I will not leave it.’
Caledor’s face flashed briefly with anger. ‘Will not? Let me remind you, brother, of how things stand. I have the mandate of the Flame. I built the fleets that spread our power over the world. I broke the grip of the corsairs. I slew the prince of the stunted folk and sent his armies reeling.’
Imladrik listened to the litany wearily. Perhaps it sounded impressive to his brother; to his own ears, it sounded painfully insecure. Both of them knew that their father had been gifted the title ‘Conqueror’ by the people. Caledor II was desperate to make a similar mark in the annals and so threw himself into one battle after the other, neglecting all else but war. That might fool the rabbles of Lothern and Tor Alessi, though it fooled no one who had actually known Imrik.
‘And you,’ said Caledor, almost scornfully. ‘The Master of Dragons. What is that, even? An old title from a dusty lineage. They are dying, Imladrik. They have been dying for centuries and nothing will halt it. You have wasted your life with them, trying to coax out a little more ore from a mined-out shaft.’
Imladrik met his gaze evenly. ‘You know nothing of them.’
‘So you have always told me, but by Khaine, brother, your piety riles me! You speak of mystical nonsense and then expect me to take you seriously, and in the meantime there are real wars to be fought. My gold buys the making of a thousand warships. Every day we ferry more soldiers to Elthin Arvan — you think it happens by itself? And all the while you commune with your… creatures in the hills.’
‘I will not go.’
Caledor rose from the throne. Imladrik saw the brittleness there: the raised veins in his neck, the tight line of his jaw. So it had ever been with him, always just one step away from battle-rage.
‘Then I order it,’ said Caledor through gritted teeth. ‘I order you to Elthin Arvan. You will wage the war against the dawi. You will not return until their forces are broken and the colonies are secure.’
‘We do not need to fight them!’ Imladrik shouted, struggling to curb his exasperation. ‘You provoked them, time and again. They are proud, they do not suffer slights, and you shamed them. You shamed them in the worst possible way, and you do not even know it.’
By then they stood only inches apart. Imladrik was the taller, the leaner, but Caledor was the stronger. Thus it had always been with them — the older brother staring up at the younger.
‘And what of you, brother?’ Caledor spat, his eyes flat. ‘You will speak up for anyone but your own kind. They killed thousands at Kor Vanaeth, thousands more at Tor Alessi. At Athel Numiel they butchered infants for sport. What would you have me do — roll over for them? Beg for mercy?’
Imladrik shook his head in disgust. ‘The war is a sham. It always has been. Our father would never-’
‘Do not mention him!’ Caledor’s voice rose in fury, skirting hysteria. ‘This is not his time! It is my time! It is my time!’
Imladrik pulled back as if burned. The frenzy in Caledor’s voice was disconcerting. ‘Gods, listen to yourself. What has happened to you?’ He forced himself to relax, his fists to unclench. ‘Just think. We can take the war to the druchii, just as we were always meant to: my dragons, your ships. There need be no jealousy between us. I have always been content to follow you. Come, you know this.’
Caledor hesitated then. His face remained taut, locked in outrage, but something else flickered across it: embarrassment, perhaps. Imladrik hardly dared to breathe.
Then Hulviar’s silky voice broke the silence.
‘This is false policy,’ interjected the seneschal. ‘We will lose the colonies. My liege, recall the determinations made-’
Imladrik whirled on him. ‘Silence!’
Hulviar recoiled, raising his hands in self-defence. By then, though, the damage had been done; Caledor’s resolve returned.
‘You will go to the east,’ Caledor ordered, his voice firm again. ‘Either you will go by your own will or you will be sent there under the custody of more dependable subjects. You are mighty, brother, but even you cannot defy the will of the Crown. If you try, it will break you.’ His voice lowered, just a little. ‘I do not wish to break you.’
Imladrik’s heart beat hard, the blood thudding in his ears. The twin swords in his hands felt heavy. He felt the potential in them, and for an instant imagined the storm he could unleash if he chose to.
Caledor did not waver. Imladrik stared down at him, his mind a torment of emotions, his face a mask. Then he looked away.
‘You are the Phoenix King,’ he said, softly.
‘And your brother,’ added Caledor, relenting a little with a half-smile.
Imladrik turned away, ready to stride back down the length of the hall. He shot a withering glance at Hulviar, then started to walk.
‘For what’s it’s worth,’ he said.
Chapter Seven
Thoriol lay back against the cushions, feeling his muscles relax. Soft lute music filled the background, calming him, easing the tensions that had filled his mind during the long descent from the mountains.
He didn’t like to think back over the journey. He had taken a steed from one of the hardscrabble settlements just outside Kor Evril and ridden along stony tracks down to Lothern, weathering incessant salt-thick wind until Eataine’s gentler land had taken hold.
The country of Caledor had always left him cold, and he had never understood what his father saw in it. To his eyes, it was all black rock and smouldering craters, scoured by the elements and beset by legends of past glory. In comparison to Cothique, his mother’s land, where grass-crowned cliffs stood proudly against the ocean and the air was sweet from the woodlands of Avelorn, it seemed a meagre, desolate place.