The Fickle Winds of Autumn

66. The Tightness of a Collar

The collar of Xuil jangled on Vlicien's chest as he walked. Its dark jewel glinted as he strode between the tall, flaming ceremonial bowls that purified the entrance to the Chamber of Ancestors.

He bowed solemnly to the elaborately carved altar on the wall, and felt the collar's resentful grip in the flickering glow of the cavernous room.

Perhaps its tight iron links had been meant for one whose neck muscles were not as large and powerful as his - it always left an unpleasant smudged ring around his taut grey skin, so that for several nights afterwards, it was still possible to see he had been called to a formal occasion.

Perhaps its restricting size was a deliberate act to remind him of his father's hold over him?

Perhaps it was there to teach him that he was not a king - and that a prince must bear the burden of his royal duties and responsibilities - that he must feel the taunting sting of his enemies - with no power to call his own.

He flexed and stretched his neck against its uncomfortable constraint.

How like his father to constantly remind him of such a lesson - to suppress his true abilities, to impose a deep humility on him.

The thick columns of hollow skulls looked down on him from their niches in the rough stone interior.

If only he could become Garzaan like them and earn his place in the Chamber.

If only he could be given a chance to prove his worth and enter the stories of the Khaldaan.

The collar pinched and gripped again.

He turned to the centre of the room. Ylukvas, the thick-armed warrior, bowed his respects; his bladed axe caught the rolling light from the trestled bowls.

Here at least was someone who took him seriously - someone who would listen.

True, their earlier discussion had not gone well, but Yulkvas remained a worthy tutor along the warrior's path.

"But if my father would just trust me - even with a small army," Vlicien said. "We would easily overpower the puny humans at night when the Compulsion of the immortal ones is upon us. We would crush them and take back our ancestral lands. With planning and daring, in a few weeks, all would be ours - we could wipe the humans from the upper-world, and reclaim all that was ours and punish them for their centuries of scorn."

"Patience, my young prince!" Yulkvas replied. "You may have almost completed the Shul'ad-naz and become a full warrior, but you still have much to learn. Your father is a great king - trust his judgement - he protects his people and keeps them out of harm - he does not seek unnecessary trouble with the upper-worlders and their ways. He understands the value of peace over war."

"But we could be so much more," said Vlicien, "with our strength and skill with the bladed-axe, we could take more territory from these weakling over-landers, instead of merely skulking here - we were created to rule this world not cower in its shadows."

"Your years approach fullness, highness, but your words betray the strength of the demon within you - their bonding lends us great power, but be careful not to allow their hatred and blood-lust, their darkest desires to consume this world, to conquer your own senses and emotions."

Vlicien turned and paced the smoothed floor towards the turbulent pool of lava which bubbled and protected the far wall.

Even his faithful mentor and friend did not seem to understand or trust his judgements.

How many times could they keep repeating this same old argument?

Walvaan, the god of the lava, the giver and taker of life, rippled and boiled in the pit below his feet.