The High Citadel

The mental pressure had begun three leagues from the High Citadel. The fortress stood on top of a natural column of stone, a quarter of a mile in diameter, rising from the floor of a canyon where the sandy plain plunged three hundred metres down in a sheer cliff to the river below. The Heavenly Tower, as it was called by the locals, was linked to the edge of the cliff by a great, stone bridge, wide enough for ten men to walk across side-by-side. The bridge itself ran between two thundering waterfalls that plunged down into the ravine, throwing up a shimmering rainbow of water that contrasted against the Citadel's obsidian walls. The Citadel impressed Iskrin every time he visited it. And the weight of the High King's presence made the beauty become more and more oppressive, the closer one came.

Having passed through the entry portal in the fortress wall, where he gave over the reins of his horse and removed his outer coat, Iskrin had made his way directly to the Hall of The King. The hall was some hundred metres in length and its high, arched ceiling stood thirty metres above his head. The ceiling was made of fae crystal - the iridescence of the mineral casting coloured lights onto the polished black floors and walls of the chamber. The same crystal formed buttresses running the length of the hall. Between each buttress was a high, arched window - ten a side - that stood to the full height of the room and looked out along the canyon. At the far end of the room, on a great stone dias stood the Revenant Throne.

"Come." The voice was ancient and cold. The command seemed to seep into his bones like ice on a winter's night, compelling him both to fight and to give in. The physical pressure of the High King's consciousness weighed him down as he took a hundred heavy steps to stand before them.

"Most holy sire," Iskrin began.

"Silence!" The command was spoken softly, but the force of the word caused Iskrin to stagger backwards, almost falling to the polished floor. His throat constricted and he felt as though he were being pressed down and ground to fine dust by the weight of a glacier. "You will listen, First Estril of the AmranKai. And you will remember."

Iskrin managed to nod, though the effort to raise his head up after he had lowered it in this gesture was immense.

"You have risked the jewel of my kingdom, Iskrin Orin'Darr. Your lust for the Sword of Askamran nearly brought Ansa`fel into the hands of the Än'vakor." As they said this, the High King rose from the obsidian throne and walked slowly down the steps of the dias. Each footfall was like the ringing of steel on hard ice and the pressure bearing Iskrin down increased as the High King came near. They stopped just in front of the AmranKai and placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt the cold pouring into him, though it burned like fire, rather than cooled like ice. He felt it crawl its way into every sinew, every muscle and bone until it enveloped his limbs, his lungs and his heart. He couldn't breath and though he wished he could raise his hands to claw at his throat, his limbs hung lifeless at his sides. He looked in to the High King's eyes through their crowned helmet and saw their cold, blue gaze measuring him. "You are not permitted to fail, First Estril," the High King continued, their voice a whisper that poured over him like a frozen mist. "I will quench your lust for Ke'ntor, the Sword of Askamran. I should have understood that for one so weak as you, its spirit would be too great to bear." Then a look flashed across the High King's face. Iskrin thought that for just a moment, it might have been surprise. "It seems someone has already cleansed you of the demon soul," they said thoughtfully. "High magic indeed."

With that, the High King turned and walked back up to their throne, where they sat and looked down on their servant again. Iskrin collapsed to his knees, rubbing his arms and hands as the feeling returned to them. The return of feeling was almost worse than the loss of it. His nerves screamed as his body came back to life. "Now you may speak," the High King intoned.

"I am sorry," Iskrin began.

"Your feelings mean nothing to me, AmranKai." Spoken like a winter's gale.

Iskrin thought for a moment, arranging his thoughts carefully, and then began to cautiously relate the events of the past weeks, sparing no detail or insight. The High King listened with a look of boredom, in so far as a helmet can convey boredom, but asked a series of questions about Silmariel, Eternatee, Lyrena and Malekith that indicated they had been listening closely.

"Go," they said, when Iskrin finished speaking. "I do not expect to have to summon you again, First Estril."

As Iskrin rode away from the High Citadel, the pressure in his mind began to lessen. He still felt the slight emptiness in him now that the fragment of Ke'ntor was gone. Added to that, now, was a tiny sliver of cold that the High King had placed near his heart. He knew its purpose. Another failure and that shard of ice would pierce him and end his life. The High King was not cruel or unkind. Inhuman, certainly, and a dictator in a benign way, of course. But the one thing Iskrni had learned the High King could not risk was losing Ansa`fel to anyone. He had yet to understand why this was the case. But the question interested him all the more now that his life was on the table and a new hand freshly dealt.