Elves: Beyond the Mists of Katura Read Online Free PDF Page B

‘What’s wrong?’
    Memories long buried clawed their way back to the surface. Fears long forgotten started his hands trembling and made his heart quicken.
    ‘Don’t leave here. Not unless you hear a general call to evacuate everyone south. Takaar may not have been overreacting.’ Auum kissed Onelle’s forehead. ‘Pray,
Onelle. Pray this Stein is a fraud and Takaar has been fooled. I’ll send word when I can. Look after Nerille. She’s old and frail and I want to see her again before she dies.’
    Onelle had tears on her cheeks.
    ‘You can save us, can’t you, Auum?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    The palace and temple of Parve was grand beyond the comprehension of all of those who had been forced to build it, all of those summoned to worship there and all of those who
could not avoid seeing it every single day. Those who dwelt within it cared nothing for it, only for the power that smouldered within its walls and seeped through the stone flags on the floor.
    Parve, the only great city of the Wesmen, was largely deserted and had fallen into disrepair as the unity of the tribes had crumbled in the wake of the Sundering at Triverne and the destruction
of the Wytch Lords’ greatest power base. But now it was complete, an aura of strength was building within the temple. Already the first strikes had been made into the east.
    The ill-advised unveiling of the apocalyptic spell Dawnthief by Septern had forced the Wytch Lords’ hands but their agents had failed to capture the mage or his creation. The subsequent
assault on Septern’s mansion and workshop had yielded nothing but had cost a large number of Wesman lives. Those were acceptable losses, but the disappearance of two agents was
disappointing.
    Ystormun had a great deal more to ponder than that and much to answer for on a personal basis. He had never regained his true status since his return, in a decidedly withered form, from Calaius
more than seven hundred years ago. His reincarnation had been greeted with disdain by the cadre, and his efforts to retake his power had been thwarted at every turn.
    He was the first to arrive at the meeting in the Hexerion chamber, and he could still find the energy to raise a smile at its stunningly naive design. In the mistaken belief that all Wytch Lords
considered themselves equal, the room was a perfect hexagon with identical panels each containing a door and a fireplace. The table which dominated the centre of the room was a marble hexagon
mounted on a granite plinth.
    A six-spoke iron chandelier hung low over the table, its candles spilling yellow light not quite far enough. The six chairs were identical: high-backed, winged and leather-upholstered. The
tapestries hung on each wall depicted the imagined glories of the Wytch Lords.
    It was a ridiculous room, but strangely conducive to the matters of dominion so beloved by the Wytch Lords. And so they endured the chill of the table, the poor light and the erratic heat of the
fires because it was within these walls that they could hate each other with particular acuity.
    Ystormun brushed down his thick woollen robes. He pulled his cloak about him and sat in his chair. He closed his eyes and found the trails of the other five as they meandered or strode through
the ether to the Hexerion. All of them felt angry, all of them were prepared to blame one another, and all of them would have particular vitriol for Ystormun.
    Before long, all of the soulless immortals were present, and the table had been set with spirits, wines and meats. Ystormun rested his head against the back of his chair, finding that the wings
obscured him from the glares of the vain black-skinned Belphamun on his left and the venous mottled sack of bones that was Giriamun on his right.
    Opposite him, Pamun gazed at him with undisguised loathing. His skin seemed tighter than ever over the angled bones of his skull, and the ever-present skullcap had not been pulled down far
enough to hide the pulse in his