Naggaroth, just as he missed the gladiatorial games and the easy availability of slave girls. He had kept a harem of them in his palace in Naggarond. They had been his, to do with whatever he wanted, to dispose of however he willed when he had done with them. That had been in another lifetime, one that seemed like a dream now. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps he had always been Prince Iltharis and he was mad, and the life of Urian Poisonblade, champion of Malekith, was some sort of deranged fantasy. Or perhaps he just wished it so.
He smiled mockingly and his reflection smiled back. He had worn so many other faces, lived so many other lives, he sometimes lost track of these things. There were times when he really believed himself to be Prince Iltharis and a loyal friend to the Phoenix King and Korhien Ironglaive. Those were not bad things to be, he thought, and then scoffed at his own weakness.
He was getting soft. He had spent too much time amid these spineless creatures that called themselves high elves and too long away from the harsh certainties of Naggaroth. He had grown accustomed to not having to carry a dozen concealed weapons and look for treachery in the faces of those who called themselves his closest friends. Now the only face he looked upon that hid treachery was his own. It winked back at him from the mirror and then it smiled sourly.
This was not what he had expected, not at all. He found he quite enjoyed living this life. He enjoyed being respected and not simply feared for his talent with a blade. He enjoyed living among people who thought of things other than their own interests occasionally.
Once, like all the other druchii, he had scoffed at the asur and their hypocrisy, the way they felt they were better, more moral. He had come to realise that in some ways they were. Even if they were hypocrites, their very hypocrisy made them better than the dark elves. The fact that they wanted to appear good, even for the wrong reasons, made them behave in a way that was better.
It did not matter that they aided each other because they wanted to be seen to live up to some ancient ideal. The fact was, that for whatever the reasons, they did. And some of them really did believe in their ideals, Korhien and young Prince Tyrion for example, unless he was much mistaken. They were fools, of course, but it was a folly that it was possible to respect. Nor were they weak – their folly gave them strength and courage.
He took another sip of wine and wished that it were laced with the ecstatic poisons made from powdered lotus. At times like these he missed them. Before he came to Ulthuan, to assume the role of Prince Iltharis that had been long prepared for him among Malekith’s secret followers in Ulthuan, he had been forced to abstain for months. It had been a hard time. He had sweated through withdrawal symptoms that would have killed other druchii. He had lost the bright, mad clarity that never, ever having his bloodstream free of the drugs had given him. In some ways, he realised he really had made himself into a high elf. He had been forced to live as they did.
It was not entirely unpleasant. He was no longer given to mad rages or picking quarrels with strangers for reasons he could never quite remember the next day. He lived in a place now where that would not be acceptable. Here, elves needed good reasons to kill each other, they did not do it simply to gratify a momentary whim. Of course, he missed being able to do that sometimes. Who would not? But he found these days that he had fewer regrets.
He admitted it. He sometimes wished that he could simply forget who he was and become Prince Iltharis. He would put aside his divided loyalties and fragmented personality and become wholly one thing. For a moment, and a moment only, he allowed himself to imagine what that would really feel like.
Then he dismissed the fantasy.
There were those who knew who he was, who would not allow him to do that. And even if he killed them, there would be others, secret watchers whom he never suspected. They would bring word of his treachery to the Witch King. And Malekith was not a forgiving master to