The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  “Our business is serious, not to be discussed on the street. Believe me, mistress,” the elf added, in a low voice, “we like this no more than you do. You have our word that we will touch nothing!”

  “Did my father send you?” Jenna asked, playing for time.

  If Justarius had sent them, he would have told her first, and she’d had no word from him in months, ever since their last quarrel. He strongly disapproved of her lover.

  “No, mistress,” said the elf. “We come on our own.”

  Odd, Jenna thought. One of the elves is Qualinesti, the other Silvanesti. She could tell the difference by their accents, though probably no other human in Solamnia could have done so. But Jenna had spent a great deal of time around elves, one elf in particular.

  Long, long ago, the elves had been one nation. Bitter wars, the Kinslayer War, had divided them into two, Qualinesti and Silvanesti. Neither nation had any love for the other. Even now, after the War of the Lance had united every other race on Ansalon, the two elven states—though ostensibly one—were, in reality, farther apart than ever.

  Her curiosity aroused, Jenna opened her door and stepped back to permit the elves to enter. She wasn’t the least bit fearful. They were elves, and that meant that they were upstanding, law-abiding, and good to the point of boredom. Plus, she had a spell on her lips that would blow them back out into the street if they tried anything.

  The two elves stood together in the very center of the shop. They kept their elbows locked to their sides, fearful of even touching a display case. They stood near each other—on the defensive—but were studiously careful to avoid touching each other. Allies, but unwilling allies, Jenna guessed. Her curiosity was now almost overpowering her.

  “I believe you two gentlemen will be much more at home in my chambers upstairs,” she said, with an impish smile. “I was about to make tea. Won’t you join me?”

  The Silvanesti elf had covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. The Qualinesti elf had half-turned and come literally eye-to-eye with a jar filled with eyeballs, floating in their protective fluid. He blenched and backed up a step.

  Jenna gestured up the stairs. “You will find my chambers quite comfortable. And ordinary. My laboratory is downstairs, in the cellar,” she added, for reassurance.

  The elves again exchanged glances, then both nodded stiffly and began to ascend the stairs behind their hostess. The elves appeared vastly relieved to see that Jenna’s small living room looked like any other human’s living room, replete with table and chairs and soft-cushioned couches. Jenna stirred up the fire and brewed tea, using a leaf mixture imported from Qualinesti.

  The elves drank their tea and nibbled at a cookie, for politeness’s sake, nothing more. Jenna made small talk; elves never discussed business while eating and drinking.

  The elves made suitable comments but offered nothing of their own, and the conversation dwindled away altogether. As soon as they could, without insulting their hostess, both elves set down their teacups, indicating they were prepared to discuss serious matters. But, now that they were here, they didn’t seem to know where to begin.

  Jenna could either let them stew or offer to help. Since she was expecting far more pleasant company later this evening, she wanted these elves gone, and so she prodded them along.

  “Well, gentlemen, you’ve come to me—a red-robed magic-user. What is it you need of me? I must tell you, in advance, that I do not travel out of the city. If you want me to work magic, it must be magic that can be done here, within the confines of my own laboratory. And I don’t mix love potions, if that’s what you’re in the market for …”

  Jenna knew very well that love wasn’t what they sought—not two bitter enemies, coming to her shop in secret, in the twilight. But it never hurt to feign ignorance.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Qualinesti elf abruptly. “I … I …” He snapped his mouth shut, collected his thoughts, and started over. “This is most difficult for me. For us. We have need to talk to … someone. A special someone. And we have been advised that you were the one person who might be able to help us.”

  Ah, thought Jenna. Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting. She gave them a sweet and limpid smile. “Indeed? Someone I know? I can’t imagine who that might be. You gentlemen appear to be of high birth. Surely, all doors on Ansalon would be open to you.”

  “Not this particular door,” said the Silvanesti elf harshly. “Not the door to …” His voice dropped. “The Tower of High Sorcery.”

  “The dark tower,” added the Qualinesti. “The tower located here, in Palanthas. We want to speak … to the master.”

  Jenna studied them. Two high-born elves; that much was proclaimed by their expensive clothing, their ornate swords, the fine jewels adorning their fingers and dangling from around their necks. Both elders, too, for though it was sometimes difficult to tell the ages of elves, these two were obviously in their middle years.

  High-birth, high-rank, longtime enemies, short-time allies.

  And they wanted to talk to the worst enemy each could possibly have in this world—the Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.

  “You want to talk to Dalamar,” Jenna said calmly.

  “Yes, mistress.” The Qualinesti’s voice cracked. He coughed, angry at himself.

  The Silvanesti, it seemed, had no voice at all. His face was rigid and set, his lips pursed together, his hand tightly clenched over the hilt of his sword. They were both obviously hating this.

  Jenna bit her lip to keep from laughing. No wonder these elves had been so intent on privacy. Dalamar was one of their own, an elf of Silvanesti, but he was one who had been exiled, banished from elven society in disgrace. He was what they termed a “dark elf”—one who has been cast out of the light. His crime was the study of evil magic, the donning of the Black Robes. Such a heinous deed could never be condoned in elven society. For these two to even look on Dalamar would be considered a shocking act. To actually speak to him! …

  Jenna could hardly wait to hear Dalamar’s reaction. She decided to make these two suffer a little first, however.

  “What makes you think that I can gain you such an interview?” she asked, in all innocence.

  The Qualinesti flushed. “We have been informed that you and … er … the tower’s master (he would not say the name) are friends …”

  “He was my shalafi.1 And he is my lover,” Jenna replied, and enjoyed watching the elves squirm.

  They again exchanged glances, as much as to say, What can you expect of a human?

  The Silvanesti had apparently had enough. He rose to his feet. “Let us end this as swiftly as possible. Can you … will you … put us in touch with the Master of the Dark Tower?”

  “Perhaps.” Jenna was noncommittal. “When?”

  “As soon as possible. Time is pressing.”

  Jenna arched a shapely eyebrow. “A word of caution. If you are considering laying a trap for Dalamar—”

  The Qualinesti eyed her. “I assure you, madam,” he said grimly, “no harm will come to him.”

  “No harm come to him!” Jenna laughed. “Why, what possible danger could you be to Dalamar? He is the most powerful of all the black-robed mages. He is head of the Order of Black Robes, and he will, when my father retires, take over the leadership of the entire Wizards’ Conclave.

  “Please, I’m sorry. Forgive me,” she added, trying to stifle her laughter. The two were obviously deeply offended. “I was thinking of your safety, gentlemen. A friendly warning. Don’t try any tricks with Dalamar. You won’t enjoy the consequences.”

  “Of all the insolence!” The Silvanesti was livid with rage. “We don’t have to—”

  “Yes, we do,” said his companion in a low voice.

  The Silvanesti choked, but kept silent.

  “When may we meet with the Master of the Tower?” the Qualinesti asked coldly.

  “If Dalamar agrees to meet with you, you will find him here, tomorrow night, in my cham
bers. I trust this place will be satisfactory to you? Or perhaps you would rather meet in the Tower of High Sorcery itself? I could sell you a charm—”

  “No, mistress.” The elves knew she was mocking them. “This room will be quite suitable.”

  “Very well.” Jenna rose to her feet. “I will see you tomorrow night, at about this same time. Pleasant dreams, gentlemen.”

  The Silvanesti’s face flushed red. He seemed prepared to strike her, but the Qualinesti halted him.

  “Pleasant dreams—what a tactless remark,” Jenna murmured, lowering her eyes to hide her amusement, “considering the terrible tragedy that has befallen Silvanesti. Forgive me.”

  She escorted them down the stairs and out the door, kept watch until they had disappeared down the street. When they were gone, she replaced the spell of warding, and—laughing out loud—went upstairs to prepare for her lover’s arrival.

  1 Elvish for “master.” Red-robed mages, being neutral in all things, may apprentice themselves to a master of any alignment good, neutral or evil.

  Chapter Two

  The two elves were prompt. Jenna admitted them into her shop. Serious, demure, she led them to the stairs. At the foot, however, the elves came to a halt. They both were wearing green silk masks that covered the top half of their faces.

  They looked, Jenna thought, decidedly silly, like children dressed in costume for the Festival of the Eye.

  “Is he here?” asked the Qualinesti, with dread solemnity.

  His gaze went up the stairs. Evening’s shadows had gathered at the top. Undoubtedly the elf saw a different form of darkness, one more solid, more substantial.

  “He is,” Jenna replied.

  Both elves hesitated, prey to inner turmoil. By even speaking to a dark elf, they were committing a crime that could well bring upon them the same fate—disgrace, banishment, and exile.

  “We have no choice,” said the Silvanesti. “We discussed this.”

  The Qualinesti nodded. The green silk was sticking to his face. Beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip.

  The two mounted the stairs. Jenna started to follow.

  The Silvanesti turned. “This conversation is private, madam,” he said harshly.

  “You are in my house,” Jenna reminded him.

  The Qualinesti hastened to make amends. “Forgive us, mistress, but surely you can understand …”

  Jenna shrugged. “Very well. If you need anything, you will find me in my laboratory.”

  Dalamar heard the elven voices, heard the light tread of booted feet ascending the staircase. He smiled.

  “This is my moment of triumph,” he said softly to the darkness. “I always knew this would happen. Sooner or later, you self-righteous hypocrites, who cast me out in shame and disgrace, would be forced to come crawling back to me, begging for my help. I will grant it, but I will make you pay.” Dalamar’s slender fist clenched. “Oh, how I will make you pay!”

  The two elves appeared in the doorway. Both were wearing masks—a sensible precaution, to prevent him from recognizing them—which meant, of course, that he knew them, or at least knew the Silvanesti.

  “How long has it been since I was cast out of my homeland?” Dalamar muttered. “Twenty years, at least. A long time to humans, a short time for elves.”

  And the memory was burned into his mind. Two hundred years might pass, and he would not forget.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Dalamar said, speaking Silvanesti, his native tongue, “enter and be seated.”

  “Thank you, no,” said the Qualinesti. “This is not a social call, master. It is strictly business. Let us understand this from the very beginning.”

  “I have a name,” Dalamar said softly, his eyes intent on the elves, much to their discomfiture.

  They found it difficult to look at him—to look on the black robes, decorated with arcane symbols of power and protection; on the bags of spell components hanging from his belt; on his face—youthful, handsome, proud, cruel. He was powerful, in control. Both men knew it, but neither man liked it.

  “You had a name,” said the Silvanesti. “It is no longer spoken among us.”

  “What a pity.” Dalamar folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes. He bowed, prior to making his departure. “Gentlemen, you appear to have wasted your time …”

  “Wait!” The Qualinesti gulped. “Wait, D-Dalamar.” He mopped sweat from his lip. “This is not easy for us!”

  “Nor for me,” Dalamar returned coldly. “How do you think it makes me feel to hear, for the first time in all these years, the language of my homeland?” His throat constricted. He was forced to turn away, to stare into the fire, let the heat burn away his sudden, unexpected tears.

  Neither answered. He heard them shift uncomfortably.

  His unwelcome emotions tamped down, Dalamar turned to face them.

  “And so, General, and you, Senator, what do you want of Dalamar the Dark?” he demanded brusquely.

  The two stared at him in glowering astonishment, dismayed at his recognition.

  “I … I don’t know to whom you are … referring …” The Silvanesti general attempted to bluster his way out.

  Dalamar gave the two a sardonic smile.

  “Next time you want to travel incognito, I suggest that you, General, remove your ceremonial sword, and that you, Senator, take off your ring of office.”

  “I think … I will sit down,” said the senator, the Qualinesti. He sank into a chair.

  The general, the Silvanesti, remained standing, hand on the hilt of the sword that had betrayed him.

  “You begin,” the senator said to his companion.

  The general crossed his arms over his chest, stood with feet apart. “I must tell you first what I think will be welcome news, even to you, Dalamar.” He spoke the name with the tip of his tongue against his teeth, as if fearful that taking the name into his mouth might poison him. “Silvanesti has at last been reclaimed. Lorac’s evil dream, which held our land in thrall, has been defeated. The few pockets of draconians and goblins holding parts of our land have been routed. Twenty years it took us, but now Silvanesti is ours again. Its beauty has returned.”

  “Congratulations,” Dalamar said, his lip curling in a sneer. “So Porthios led you to victory. Yes, you see, I keep up with the politics of my homeland. Porthios, a Qualinesti, married Alhana, Lorac’s daughter, Silvanesti queen. A united elven kingdom—I believe was what the two had in mind. And for the last twenty years, the Qualinesti Speaker of the Sun, Porthios, has risked his life to save the Silvanesti homeland. And he has succeeded. How have you repaid him for his services?”

  “He has been imprisoned,” said the general gravely.

  Dalamar began to laugh. “How very elven! Imprison the man who saves your miserable lives. What was his crime? No, let me guess. I know Porthios, you see. He never let you Silvanesti elves forget that it was the Qualinesti who had come to your rescue. He spoke often of how the Qualinesti and the Silvanesti would unite, but implied that it would be the Qualinesti who would rule over their weaker brethren. Am I right?”

  “Near enough.” The general was not pleased. He could hear plainly the sarcasm in the dark elf’s voice.

  Dalamar turned to the senator. “And how do you Qualinesti feel about this? Your Speaker of the Sun imprisoned?”

  The senator gasped, tugged on his mask. “This thing is stifling me.” He drew a deep breath, then spoke carefully, “We have no quarrel with the Silvanesti. Their queen, the wife of Porthios, Alhana Starbreeze, is my guest in Qualinost.”

  Dalamar sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “The things I’ve missed, locked away in my dull tower. A ‘guest.’ you say. A guest who is undoubtedly weary of your hospitality but finds it difficult to leave. What is her crime?”

  “This is not generally known, but Alhana Starbreeze is pregnant.” The senator was nervously twisting his ring of office around and around on his finger.

  Dalamar was intrigued. “So, after twenty ye
ars, the marriage of convenience has heated up, has it? I’m surprised Porthios found the time. Or the inclination.”

  “If the child is born in elven lands,” the senator went on, pretending he hadn’t heard, “while the parents rule, the child will be heir to the thrones of both kingdoms. The unification will be complete.”

  “This must not be allowed to happen.” The general’s hand clenched over the sword’s hilt.

  “And what do you propose to do to stop it?” Dalamar asked. “Assuming murder is not a consideration.”

  The senator stiffened in outraged dignity. His silk mask was wet around the forehead and clung to his face. “Exile. Both of them.”

  “I see,” said Dalamar. “Like myself.” His voice was soft, bitter. “Death would be kinder.”

  The senator frowned. “Are you implying—”

  “I imply nothing.” Dalamar shrugged. “Merely making a comment. But I don’t quite see how I fit into this neat little treasonous plot of yours. Unless you are offering me the rulership of the elves?”

  The two regarded him in horror, eyes wide and staring.

  “Please, gentlemen, you take yourselves too seriously!” Dalamar laughed, reassuring. “I spoke in jest, nothing more.”

  Both appeared relieved, but still somewhat suspicious.

  “House Protector will rule Silvanesti, until such time as a member of House Royal is deemed prepared to take over,” said the general. “House Protector has ruled Silvanesti for these past twenty years, while we fought the dream. My people are accustomed to martial law. And they don’t like Porthios.”

  “As for the Qualinesti …” The senator hesitated. He glanced uneasily down the staircase.

  “Don’t worry,” said Dalamar. “Jenna isn’t the sort to eavesdrop. And, believe me, she has little interest in the politics of the elven kingdoms.”

  “This is far too delicate a matter to take the chance of word leaking out,” the senator said, and he beckoned Dalamar near.

  The dark elf, looking amused, shrugged and walked over.