Devastating Hate (31 page)

“
What?
” Black lines of fury broke out over his face as Sinthoras took this in. “That confounded Polòtain! He's behind this!
Isn't he
?” he yelled in the envoy's face.

“I can't comment,” Verànor replied.

“Samusin is my witness: I shall ram his slanderous accusations down his throat. How can the Inextinguishables have been taken in by the nonsense he spouts?”

“There are witnesses, Nostàroi.” Verànor remained relatively unimpressed by this outburst and Carmondai admired his calm demeanor. “Their testimonies have led to the Sibling Rulers' decision to recall you. The public is very keen to see the law being observed. Murder of a member of one's own kind is a very serious offense. Until the matter has been clarified in a court—”

“No,” whispered Sinthoras, sensing the worst. Carmondai was agog.

“I must—” Verànor continued.

“
No!
” barked Sinthoras, his eyes black as lakes in the moonlight.

He made to draw his weapons, but Caphalor stopped him with a restraining hand on his forearm. The ten soldiers accompanying the envoy drew their swords in response.

Verànor went on as if he had not noticed this upheaval, “—suspend you. You are relieved of your office as nostàroi.”

Sinthoras opened his mouth and shut it again. His voice failed completely and he staggered, saved from falling by his friend's arm.

Carmondai could only guess what was going through the ambitious älf's head: a moment ago he had been expecting to enter Dsôn Faïmon as a victorious hero and now he was plunging toward destruction.
A true Comet.
Everything he had worked for was in jeopardy: his reputation in the army, his successes in Tark Draan, his newly acquired social status
in Dsôn . . .
What drama! Losing his commission must be like being struck in the face with a cudgel.

Verànor turned to Caphalor. “I am to tell you that you must also resign from your post as nostàroi. It can be arranged to look as if you are leaving at your own request, in order to spare you any disgrace.”

“For what reason?” Carmondai thought Caphalor looked strangely relieved.

“We have heard that the alliance is beginning to fracture. Word has got around Dsôn that the campaign has been disrupted and the people are unhappy. The Sibling Rulers cannot afford to have problems on two fronts and they must be seen to take action. This is why you will be downgraded to benàmoi with a unit of your own. Another nostàroi has been chosen to take your place.”

“I understand.” Caphalor gave a faint smile.

Carmondai could not believe it.
How am I going to word this in my epic? It's outrageous!
He worried that Verànor might make him quietly disappear for fear he might publish what he had heard.

The envoy's bodyguard sheathed their swords and surrounded Sinthoras, who was now no more than an ordinary älf in an extravagant set of armor—and a murder suspect. His past services to the state were overshadowed and eclipsed.

“You should know that there is . . . an ally here in Tark Draan that only obeys Sinthoras,” Caphalor warned.

“How could it be significant enough to merit disobeying the wishes of the Inextinguishables?” Verànor asked, seemingly implacable.

“The mist-demon will only fight for us if Sinthoras is here.”

“Why is that? I thought you had both negotiated with the demon to get him to join the campaign?”

“He . . . likes Sinthoras better.” Caphalor gave the envoy a steadfast look. “Please tell the Inextinguishables this and I am sure they will find a solution for the inquiry. Otherwise, disaster is assured. The demon has been quite clear about it: he insists on speaking only to Sinthoras.”

“I am tied to the orders I receive from the Sibling Rulers.” Verànor looked at Sinthoras. “You will have to explain to the demon that you are unavailable for the present, and the creature can take its wrath out on Tark Draan.”

Sinthoras shrugged. “It is a demon, Verànor! How am I supposed to make him understand that? I can't force him to do what I say.”

“But he'll listen to you, I thought?”

“I—” Sinthoras stood up straight, but now had an air of defeat where arrogance had existed before. “I hope so.”

We all hope so.
Carmondai knew that the mist-demon was utterly unpredictable. It had terrified him to the depths of his soul and Carmondai knew that nobody could constrain him if he were to turn against the älfar. He represented the greatest danger to the whole campaign, much greater than the threat of insurrection among the other allies.
Samusin and all infamous powers, protect us!

“I hope so, too, for your sake.” As far as Verànor was concerned, the matter was settled. “My guards will accompany you from now on, Sinthoras. Get your things ready for the journey.” He turned to Caphalor. “As of now, you are benàmoi to the armored cavalry and you will take orders from the new nostàroi, who is currently with the army encamped in the Golden Plain, inspecting the crater. The plan subsequently is to tackle Gwandalur.”

Caphalor nodded briskly then turned to Sinthoras and embraced him. “We shall meet again,” he said reassuringly. “And you will be appointed nostàroi once more, as you deserve to be.”

“Thank you for your faith in me,” Sinthoras replied despondently, returning the embrace. “My enemies in Dsôn will learn what it is to go against me. And in spring we will conquer Tark Draan. The two of us will make it happen, as no one else can.” They shook hands. Then Sinthoras left the room together with Verànor and the escort. As he left he gave Carmondai a curt nod of acknowledgment.

Ye infamous gods! I did not expect any of that!
He opened his folder and started making notes.
No one could have predicted it!

“It is said that Samusin is responsible for the direction of the wind and for dispensing justice,” Caphalor said thoughtfully. “I wonder what Sinthoras has done to merit such punishment?”

“Murder and incitement to murder?” Carmondai blurted out.

“The accusation of murder will be connected to Robonor's accident, I presume. As far as I know, Sinthoras had nothing to do with it.” Caphalor sat down on one of the benches and propped his feet up on the
table. “I investigated the events of that night because I wanted to know what had happened.”

Carmondai stopped writing. “But why didn't you—”

“Because it is not my place and because I have no proof.” He looked at the poet. “The stones on the roof had been levered off, it is true, but not at the nostàroi's request.”

“Whose then?”

“The Inextinguishables themselves.”

Carmondai felt as if he had been struck by a lance. The pencil snapped in his fingers. “What are you talking about?”

“There were blind älfar on the roof that night. They waited until Robonor's crew were beneath them. A blind älf could not aim a stone with complete accuracy—unless he had come from the Bone Tower.”

“That's insane! Why would they give an order like that?”

Caphalor sighed deeply, a sigh of resignation. “It is not our place to try to understand their motives. Perhaps they even thought to do Sinthoras a favor by disposing of his rival. Perhaps they were making secret preparations for accusing him of murder should he become too powerful.” He leaned forward. “I am sure of what I say. Proof or no proof.”

“How do you know the älfar up there were blind?”

“Two locals saw them up there. Their movements were a peculiar mixture of caution and confidence at first, as if unsure of where they were. That's why I think they were testing their immediate environment, getting to know it. The blind bodyguards are used to doing that.” Caphalor pointed to the door. “Sinthoras made the mistake of quarreling with Polòtain. Polòtain is a fine politician: ambitious, very powerful and with a strong network of important contacts. He
wants
to believe that his great-nephew died at Sinthoras's hand, and the Inextinguishables can hardly admit their own involvement. The fact that they have not intervened now shows that they are not averse to having Sinthoras cut down to size . . . I am a simple benàmoi and consider myself lucky.” His tone was cynical.

Carmondai's head was buzzing. “And that is why you did not object when they said you had been demoted?”

“What use would it have been? I can bring my destructive hate raining down on Tark Draan just as well in the capacity of benàmoi; there
is no need to be in supreme command. Besides that, holding the office of nostàroi is chiefly to blame for the loss of my . . . life's companion.” Carmondai noted that Caphalor was musing to himself now. “Supreme command or Tark Draan—I don't give a damn about either. If it weren't for Tark Draan and the elves I could be sitting at home with Enoïla right now, doing wonderful things. I could be defending Dsôn Faïmon against the dorón ashont like a proper warrior. I—” He shut his eyes and gulped back a sob. “I am full of hate,” he whispered flatly. “I hate Tark Draan and all that live there.”

Carmondai felt a surge of sympathy.
A broken älf, trapped in grief and trying to obliterate his pain by inflicting suffering on those he holds responsible.
He composed a few lines on the topic, which was difficult because of his pencil having snapped in half.

From an author's point of view, Caphalor was the most interesting character in the epic: complex and driven by his emotions, but a hostage to his own pain, incapable of breaking free. Carmondai had heard that Caphalor had argued with Morana. She had been off on missions ever since—no one had seen her.
And yet, I thought they were attracted to each other. It would have been wonderful if she could have released him from his deep distress.
The figure of Sinthoras paled in comparison; his motivation was simple: pure ambition.
What justice have you planned for Caphalor, Samusin? He deserves better.

The black-haired älf sat motionless, tears running down his cheek. Black fury-lines formed in their wake, slicing his face into segments.

Heart-rending, and so poignant.
Carmondai made a quick drawing. With every line he sketched, his sympathy for the nostàroi increased. He would never be able to show the picture to anyone lest the commander's military reputation be called into question, but the scene was crying out to be captured on paper.

Shortly before he had completed his sketch, steps approached the door. An älf came in and stood blocking his light. “Move aside. I can't see what I'm doing.” From the corner of his eye he saw it was a female.

She stepped aside obediently.

At the final flourish of the pencil Carmondai stood back a little from his work and looked at it critically.
It is . . . exactly right! Anyone
seeing it would immediately be on the commander's side.
Enthused by his own skill, he smiled and sighed before turning aside and looking at the female älf waiting patiently at the door, watching Caphalor. “What do you want?”

“I heard,” she said in a warm, low voice, “that Carmondai and Caphalor were to be found here.” Her light-colored eyes were fixed on Caphalor, who had not noticed her presence.

“You have found us.” Carmondai looked her up and down. “Another envoy with a message from the Inextinguishables?” He did not care what she made of the comment.

“No. I wanted to meet you both. I've been told you are important.” She moved to study his face. “My name is Imàndaris.”

“Ah, the daughter of Yantarai the artist!” Carmondai could smell trouble.
Are they getting rid of me, too? Replacing me with her?
Then he remembered there had been some rumor about Yantarai and Sinthoras before he took up with Timanris.
No coincidence then, that she's the one they sent. Yet another humiliation for Sinthoras.

She inclined her head and then tossed her long red gold hair back. “I am honored that you have heard of my family.”

“It is delightful that you have come to flatter us,” said Carmondai, pointedly raising his open folder. “But I am the one who is recording the events and the battles in Tark Draan.”

“And nobody is better qualified, Carmondai.” Imàndaris bestowed a brief smile on him. “But I can see you have the wrong idea: I have come here as the new nostàroi.”

Carmondai's mouth fell open.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), south of the Gray Mountains, the enchanted land of Hiannorum,

4371
^st
division of unendingness (5199
^th
solar cycle),

late autumn.

Morana sat opposite Hianna the Flawless and managed to suppress a shudder. It was not that she was frightened, nor was she finding the
room unnerving. It was merely that she was finding Hianna's icing-sugar sweetness hard to take.

The maga was fond of prettiness. In fact, the entire realm of Hiannorum consisted of adorable things. Even the crops in the fields and the cemeteries where they buried their dead were charming. Add to that the delicate embroidery, nicely decorated towers, the neat garden . . .

Morana was desperate to see something dark and unpleasant. The barbarians called it Death Art.
What do they know? Their brains are tiny. They have no concept of true beauty.

She looked down at the table. The gold design on the plates was repulsive and the cutlery, in the form of rose bush stems, was hideous. The wine goblets were fashioned to look like climbing plants and the brocade cloth on the table was covered in patterns sewn in metallic thread . . . The list of abominations was endless.

I am surrounded by horrors.
Morana, dressed in her black dress and armor, felt safe knowing she was not to the maga's taste.

“The soup is . . . spiced.” She could not bring herself to be more specific in her judgment and laid her spoon down after the fourth mouthful. To her it tasted of old meat, badly stored spices and vegetables harvested long past their best.