It was the day before Bel Shanaar and Malekith were due to leave Tor Anroc for the council upon the Isle of Flame when the Phoenix King commanded the prince of Nagarythe to attend him in his throne room. Malekith walked quickly to the audience chamber, his instinct for intrigue curious as to what the Phoenix King had to say.
“I have been thinking deep upon your words,” Bel Shanaar proclaimed.
“I am pleased to hear that,” said Malekith. “May I ask what the nature of your thoughts has been?”
“I will put your idea to the princes,” said Bel Shanaar. “A single army drawn from all kingdoms will prosecute this war against the vile cults.”
“I am glad that you agree with my reasoning,” said Malekith, wondering why Bel Shanaar had brought him here to tell him what he already knew.
“I have also been giving much thought to who is best qualified to lead this army,” said Bel Shanaar, and Malekith’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation.
“I would be honoured,” said the prince of Malekith.
Bel Shanaar opened his mouth to say something but then closed it again, a confused frown upon his brow.
“You misunderstand me,” the Phoenix King then said. “I will nominate Imrik to be my chosen general.”
Malekith stood in stunned silence, left speechless by the Phoenix King’s announcement. “Imrik?” he said eventually.
“Why not?” said Bel Shanaar. “He is a fine general, and Caledor is the most stable of all the realms at the current time. He is well respected amongst the other princes. Yes, he will make a good choice.”
“And why do you tell me this?” snapped Malekith. “Perhaps you seek to mock me!”
“Mock you?” said Bel Shanaar, taken aback. “I am telling you this so that you will speak in favour of my decision. I know that you have much influence and your word will lend great weight to Imrik’s authority.”
“You would raise up the grandson of Caledor over the son of Aenarion?” said Malekith. “Have I not forged new kingdoms across the world at the head of armies? If not my bloodline, than my achievements must qualify me above all others.”
“I am sorry that you feel this way, Malekith,” said Bel Shanaar, unabashed. “The council will endorse my choice, you would do well to align yourself with me.”
At this, Malekith’s frayed temper snapped utterly.
“Align myself to you?” he snarled. “The hunter does not align himself to his hound! The master does not align himself to his servant!”
“Choose your next words carefully, Malekith!” warned the Phoenix King. “Remember who it is that you address!”
“I trust that my protest has been recognised,” he said with effort. “I urge you to reconsider your decision.”
“You are free to speak your mind at the council,” said Bel Shanaar. “It is your right to argue against Imrik, and to put forward yourself as candidate. We shall let the princes decide.”
Malekith said nothing more, but bowed stiffly and left, silently seething. He did not return to his chambers, but instead made for the wing of the palace where his mother was kept in captivity. Ignoring the guards at the door to her chambers, he knocked and then let himself in.
The chambers were well furnished, with exquisitely crafted furniture and splendid tapestries upon the walls. Though a prisoner, his mother had lost none of her aesthetic, and over the years had built up quite a collection of art and other ornaments. All of the finery however was somewhat overshadowed by the silvered runes carved upon the walls: mystical wards that kept the winds of magic at bay and thus denied Morathi her sorcerous power. They were a precaution Bel Shanaar had insisted upon.
There was no sign of her in the reception room, and Malekith strode through to the dining chamber beyond. There Morathi sat at a small table, a plate of fruit before her. She plucked a grape from the platter and looked up at him as he stormed in. She said nothing but simply raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
“Bel Shanaar will name Imrik as the general of the army,” growled Malekith. Morathi dropped the grape back onto the plate and stood up.
“You think he will win the vote?” she asked.
“Of course he will,” snapped the prince. “He is the Phoenix King, after all, and Imrik would be the best choice after me. If Imrik is made commander of the army, then Bel Shanaar has as good as named his successor. My chance will have passed and Ulthuan will be doomed to a slow dwindling under ever-lesser kings. My father’s legacy will be cast upon the ashes of our history and his line will dwindle and die. I cannot allow that to happen.”
“Then Bel Shanaar must not be allowed to put forward his arguments,” said Morathi quietly. “The time for plotting and patience has come to an end. It is time to act, and swiftly.”
“What do you mean?” asked Malekith. “How will I prevent Bel Shanaar making his declaration?”
“You must kill him,” she said.
Malekith paused, surprised at himself for not immediately dismissing the idea. In fact, the thought appealed to him. He had waited sixteen centuries to become Phoenix King, a long time even for an elf. Why settle for becoming general of Ulthuan and waiting the gods only knew how long for Bel Shanaar to die of natural causes? Better to take the initiative and see the gambit out for good or ill.
“What must I do?” Malekith asked without hesitation.
“Palthrain is one of my creatures,” Morathi said. “Long has he been my spy in Tor Anroc. He will hide certain objects in Bel Shanaar’s chambers, as evidence of the Phoenix King’s worship of Ereth Khial. These will be discovered by you, and you will go to Bel Shanaar’s rooms to confront him with this proof. When you arrive, he will be dead, having poisoned himself rather than face the truth.”
“He leaves on the morrow for the Isle of Flame,” Malekith snarled in frustration. “There is no time to fabricate such a plot!”
“Fabricate?” laughed Morathi. “You are so short-sighted sometimes, my dear son. The evidence is already in place, and has been for years. Long have I mulled over how to rid us of this wretched swine, and now the time has come. See Palthrain and get the poison from him. Find some pretence to visit the usurper and give him the poisoned wine. Everything else will already be taken care of.”
“If what you say is true, how is it that you have not acted before?” said Malekith. “Why have you suffered embarrassment and captivity when you could have struck down he who vexes us both?”
Morathi stood and embraced her son.
“Because I am a loving mother,” she said quietly. Standing back, she smoothed the creases in her dress. “If Bel Shanaar had been slain, Imrik would have stood ready to take his place, as he does now. There would be war between Nagarythe and Caledor. I could not hand you such a poisoned chalice. Now you are stronger and your claim will be agreed by the princes. Imrik’s lone voice will not be an obstacle.”
“Surely Palthrain is more trusted than I am,” said Malekith, sitting down on an elegantly carved chair. “It will be easier for him to administer the poison.”
Morathi shook her head in disappointment and crossed her arms.
“Palthrain will not become Phoenix King with this act,” she said sternly. “Show me that you have the will to succeed your father. More than that, prove it to yourself. The throne is there for the taking. Only by your own hand can you take it and deserve to sit upon it. Bel Shanaar was given his rule by others. True kings seize it for themselves.”
Malekith nodded wordlessly, struck by the truth of his mother’s words. If he could do this one simple thing there was nothing that would stand between him and his dream of ruling Ulthuan.
“Come on!” said Morathi, clapping her hands as if to chivvy along a wayward child. “You will have plenty of time to practise your speech to the princes on the voyage to the Isle of Flame.”
“I will be Phoenix King,” murmured Malekith, savouring the thought.
Upon leaving his mother, the prince sought out the chamberlain. He took Palthrain to the gardens where they could speak in privacy, and informed him of his desire to enact his mother’s plan for assassinating Bel Shanaar. Palthrain took this news without comment, merely telling Malekith that Bel Shanaar was wont to take his evening repast at sunset. He agreed to meet the prince by the Phoenix King’s rooms just before then, and would provide him with the deadly wine.
For the remainder of the day, Malekith fretted in his chambers, pacing back and forth. Though he did not doubt that what he was doing would ultimately be for the benefit of all, he worried that the plan would somehow be forestalled. He wanted to speak to his mother again, but knew that to visit her so soon after their last meeting might arouse suspicion.
As the day wore on, doubts clawed at Malekith’s nerves. Could Palthrain be trusted? Even now, was the chamberlain fulfilling his true loyalty and reporting the plot to the Phoenix King? Every footstep in the corridor beyond the door to his chambers set Malekith on edge, as he suspected the approach of Bel Shanaar’s guards.
Pacing like a trapped animal, barely ready to believe that success was so close, Malekith prowled and brooded in his rooms, unable to settle. He constantly strode to the window to check the progress of the day, as if by his will alone he could bring the sunset more quickly.
After an eternity, the sun was finally upon the horizon and Malekith set out from his rooms to meet Palthrain. He kept his expression genial as he passed servants and guards in the corridors. He then realised that he was not normally so cordial and set his face in a determined frown instead; an expression with which all in Tor Anroc were now very familiar.
In the corridor around the corner from Bel Shaanar’s main chambers Palthrain stood with a tray upon which stood a silver ewer and goblet, and a plate of cured meats and bread. Palthrain passed him the tray but Malekith’s hands were shaking and the chamberlain quickly retrieved it.
Malekith took deep breaths, trying to calm himself as if summoning the power for a difficult spell. Ignoring the purposefully blank expression of Palthrain, the prince took the tray once more, now in control of his body.
“It is used in certain practices of the Khainites, to numb the senses,” Palthrain replied. “In small doses it will render its victim incapable for several hours. With the amount I have put in the wine, it will be fatal. At first he will be paralysed. Then his breathing will become difficult as his lungs freeze, and then he will fall pass away.”
“No pain?” said Malekith.
“Not that I am aware of, highness,” said Palthrain. “What a pity,” said Malekith.
The Naggarothi prince walked down the passageway to Bel Shanaar’s chambers, forcing himself to stride slowly so as not to gamer attention. He knocked at the door and waited for Bel Shanaar’s call for him to enter.
The Phoenix King was sat at a writing desk, no doubt penning corrections to his speech for the council.
“Malekith?” he said, startled.
“Forgive the intrusion, your majesty,” said Malekith with a low bow. He stepped across the room and placed the tray on the desk.
“Why are you here?” asked Bel Shanaar. “Where’s Palthrain?”
“I apologise for waylaying him, majesty,” said Malekith. “I wished to bring you your wine as a peace offering.”
“Peace offering?”
“I wholeheartedly wish to offer my apologies,” replied Malekith, pouring the poisoned wine into the goblet. “I spoke out of misplaced anger earlier, and I caused great offence. My anger is not with you, though it might have seemed that way. I have endeavoured to earn your trust and to be a loyal subject, and it is my failings not yours that have led you to choose Imrik. I will be happy to support your choice.”
The prince passed the cup to Bel Shanaar, his face a mask of politeness. The Phoenix King frowned and for a moment Malekith feared that he suspected something. The Phoenix King took the goblet however, and placed it on the desk.
“Your apology is accepted,” said Bel Shanaar. “I do trust you, my friend, but you have personal concerns that far outweigh any duty to me. I choose Imrik not just on ability, but on the fact that I would have you address the problems of your kingdom without distraction. I would have you direct your energies solely to restoring your rule, not pandering to the whims of other kingdoms.”
The goblet remained on the desk.
“Your consideration heartens me greatly,” said Malekith, keeping his eyes fixed firmly upon the Phoenix King lest he dart a betraying glance towards the wine.
“You will offer your support in the council?” Bel Shanaar asked, finally lifting the cup to his lips and taking a mouthful of the wine.
It was not enough for the poison to work and the prince silently willed Bel Shanaar to drink more.
“When the debate rages, none will argue harder than I,” said Malekith with a smile. Bel Shanaar nodded and took another sip of wine.
“If that is all, then I wish you a fair evening and look forward to sailing with you in the morning,” said Bel Shanaar with a polite nod.
Malekith stood there watching for some sign of the poison’s effect. “What are you staring at?” asked the Phoenix King.
“Is the wine not to your satisfaction?” said the prince, taking a step closer. “I am not thirsty,” said Bel Shanaar, placing the goblet back on the desk. Malekith twisted and picked up the goblet and sniffed it.
“I am sure it is, Malekith,” said Bel Shanaar, pursing his lips. His voice became more insistent. “However, I feel a little sleepy all of a sudden. I shall retire for the night and see you in the morning.”
Stifling a frustrated shout, Malekith lunged forwards and seized Bel Shanaar by the throat. The Phoenix King’s eyes widened with terror as Malekith forced open Bel Shanaar’s mouth and emptied in the contents of the goblet. The goblet tumbled from the prince’s fingertips and spilt a cascade of red droplets over the white boards of the floor.
Clamping one hand over the Phoenix King’s nose and mouth and dragging his head back by his hair, Malekith choked the king until he swallowed the deadly draught. He then released his grip and stepped back to watch his future unfold.
“What have you—” panted Bel Shanaar, clawing at his throat and chest.
Malekith lifted the parchment from the desk. As he had suspected, it was a draft of the Phoenix King’s speech for the council. Thinking it better that no evidence of Bel Shanaar’s support for Imrik was found, he crossed the room and tossed it into the fire burning in the grate. Turning, he saw that there was still life in Bel Shanaar’s bulging eyes.
Malekith padded forwards until he was very close, and bent towards the dying elf’s ear. “You brought this upon yourself,” the prince hissed.
With a last gurgle, Bel Shanaar died, his face purple, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Malekith stood for a moment, absent-mindedly looking at the contorted face, not quite believing that it was almost over.
“Well, I have to leave you now,” he said at last, affectionately patting the Phoenix King’s head. “I have a throne to claim.”