The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  The Kagonesti bowed, indicating silently that nothing would give him greater pleasure. Gil nodded awkwardly, all the while wondering what he should do.

  “I see you hesitate. Are you not feeling well? I have heard it said that your health is precarious. Perhaps you should return home,” Rashas said solicitously. “The rigors of the flight might not be good for you.”

  That remark, of course, decided the matter.

  His face burning, Gil said that he would be pleased to accompany Senator Rashas and the griffin.

  Gil gave over the care of his horse to the Kagonesti servant without another thought. Only when he was securely mounted on the griffin did it occur to the young man to wonder how the senator had known Gil had decided to travel to Qualinesti. And how had Rashas known where to meet him?

  It was on the tip of Gil’s tongue to ask, but he was in awe of the elder elf, in awe of Rashas’s elegant and dignified air. Laurana had trained her son well, taught him to be diplomatic. Such a question would be impolite, would imply that Gil didn’t trust the elf. Undoubtedly there was a logical explanation.

  Gil settled back to enjoy the ride.

  Chapter Six

  As long as he lived, Gil would never forget his first glimpse of the fabled elven city of Qualinost. A first glimpse, yet a familiar sight to the young elf.

  Rashas turned to witness the young man’s reaction. He saw the tears sliding down Gil’s cheeks. The senator nodded approval. He even prevented Gil from wiping the tears away.

  “The beauty fills the heart to bursting. The emotion must find an outlet. Let it fall from your eyes. Your tears do you no shame, my prince, but rather great credit. It is only natural that you should weep at the first sight of your true homeland.”

  Gil did not miss the senator’s emphasis on the word true, and could only agree with him. Yes, this is where I belong! I know it now. I’ve known it all my life. For this is not my first sight of Qualinost. I’ve seen it often in my dreams.

  Four slender spires made of white stone, marbled with shining silver, rose above the tops of the aspen trees, which grew thick within the city. A taller tower, made of gold that gleamed in the sunlight, stood in the city’s center, surrounded by other buildings formed of glittering rose quartz. Quiet streets wound like ribbons of silk among the aspen groves and gardens of wild flowers. A sense of peace settled over Gilthas’s soul—peace and belonging.

  Truly, he had come home.

  The griffin landed in the center courtyard of a house made of rose quartz, decorated with green jade. The house itself seemed delicate, fragile, yet it had, so Rashas boasted proudly, withstood the tremors and fiery winds of the Cataclysm. Gil gazed at the spires, the latticework, the fluted columns and slender arches, and mentally compared this with his parent’s manor house. That house, which Laurana had named “Journey’s End,” was rectangular, with sharp angles, gabled windows, and a high-pitched roof. Compared to the graceful, beautiful elven homes, Gil recalled his house as bulky and solid and ugly. It seemed … human.

  Rashas thanked the griffin politely for its services, gave it several fine gifts, and bid it farewell. Then he led Gilthas into the house. It was more lovely inside than out, if that were possible. Elves love fresh air; their houses are more window than wall, as the saying goes. Sunlight, streaming through the latticework, danced among the shadows to form patterns on the floor, patterns that seemed alive, for they were constantly shifting with the movement of the sun and clouds. Flowers grew inside the house, and living trees sprang up from the floor. Birds soared in and out freely, filling the house with music. Lullabies whispered by gently splashing water from indoor fountains formed a soft counterpoint to the birdsong.

  Several Kagonesti elves—tall and heavily muscled, with strange markings on their skin—greeted Rashas with bows and every appearance of deference.

  “These are my Wilder elves,” Rashas said to Gil in explanation. “Once they were slaves. Now—in accordance with modern decrees—I am required to pay them for their services.”

  Gil wasn’t certain, but he thought uneasily that Rashas sounded rather put out. The elder elf glanced at him and smiled, and Gil concluded the senator had been jesting. No one in this day and age could possibly approve of slavery.

  “Only myself and my servants live here now,” Rashas continued. “I am a widower. My wife died during the war. My son was killed fighting with the armies of Whitestone, armies led by your mother, Gilthas.” Rashas gave the young man a strange look. “My daughter is married and has a house and family of her own. Most of the time, I am alone.

  “But today I have company, an honored guest staying with me. I hope you, too, my prince, will consider my house your own. I trust you will grace my dwelling with your presence?” The senator appeared eager, anxious for Gilthas to say yes.

  “I am the one who would be honored, Senator,” Gil said, flushing with pleasure. “You do me too much kindness.”

  “I will show you your room in a moment. The servants are making it up now. The lady who is my guest is most anxious to meet you. It would be impolite of us to keep her waiting. She has heard a great deal about you. She is, I believe, a close friend of your mother’s.”

  Gil was mystified. Following her marriage, his mother had retained few friends among the elves. Perhaps this person had been one of his mother’s childhood companions.

  Rashas led the way up three flights of gracefully winding stairs. A door at the top opened onto a spacious hallway. Three doors opened off the hall, one at the far end and two on each side. Two of the Kagonesti servants stood outside the far door. They bowed to Rashas. At a signal from him, one of the Wilder elves knocked respectfully on the door.

  “Enter,” said a woman’s voice, low and musical, quiet and imperious.

  Gil stood back to permit Rashas to enter, but the senator bowed, gestured. “My prince.”

  Embarrassed, yet pleased, Gilthas walked into the room. Rashas followed behind him. The servants shut the door.

  The woman had her back to them; she was standing by a window. The room was octagon-shaped, a small arboretum. Trees grew in the center, their branches carefully coaxed and trained to form a living ceiling of green. Tall, narrow windows were set into the walls. These windows were not opened, Gil noticed, but were all closed and draped in silk. He supposed the room’s occupant did not like fresh air.

  Two doors—one on each side of the room—led to private chambers off this main one. The furniture, a sofa, table, and several chairs, was comfortable and elegant.

  “My lady,” said Rashas respectfully, “you have a visitor.”

  The woman remained standing with her back to them a moment longer. Her shoulders seemed to stiffen, as if bracing herself. Then she turned slowly around.

  Gil let out a soft breath. He had never in his life seen or imagined such beauty existed, could be embodied in a living being. The woman’s hair was the black of the sky at midnight, her eyes the deep purple of amethyst. She was graceful, lovely, ethereal, ephemeral, and there was a sorrow about her that was like the sorrow of the gods.

  If Rashas had introduced the woman as Mishakal, gentle goddess of healing, Gil would not have been the least surprised. He felt strongly compelled to fall on his knees in worship and reverence.

  But this woman was not a goddess.

  “My prince, may I present Albana Starbreeze—” Rashas began.

  “Queen Alhana Starbreeze,” she corrected, softly, haughtily. She stood tall and—oddly—defiant.

  “Queen Alhana Starbreeze,” Rashas amended with a smile, as if he were indulging the whim of a child. “Please permit me to present Gilthas, son of Lauralanthalasa of the House of Solostaran … and her husband, Tanthalas Half-Elven.” Rashas added the last almost as an afterthought.

  Gil heard the distinct pause in Rashas’s words, a pause that effectively separated his father from his mother. Gil felt his skin flame in embarrassment and shame. He could not look at this proud and haughty woman, who must be pitying and
despising him. She was talking, not to him, but to Rashas. Such was Gil’s confusion that he couldn’t understand what she was saying at first. When he did, he raised his head and stared at her in pleased astonishment.

  “… Tanis Half-Elven is one of the great men of our time. He is known and revered throughout Ansalon. He has been awarded the highest honors each nation has to offer, including the elven nations, Senator. The proud Knights of Solamnia bow before him with respect. Revered Daughter Crysania of the Temple of Paladine in Palanthas considers him a friend. The dwarven king of Thorbardin calls Tanis Half-Elven brother—”

  Rashas coughed. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said dryly. “I understand the half-elf has friends among the kender, too.”

  “Yes, he does,” Alhana returned coolly. “And considers himself fortunate to have won their innocent regard.”

  “No accounting for taste,” Rashas said, his lip curling.

  Alhana made no response. She was looking at Gil, and now she was frowning, as if a new and unpleasant thought had suddenly occurred to her.

  Gil had no idea what was going on. He was too dazed, too rattled. To hear such glowing praise of his father, praise given by the queen of Qualinesti and Silvanesti. His father—one of the great men of our time … proud knights bow to him … dwarven king calls him brother … highest honors of each nation.…”

  Gil had never known that. Never known any of that.

  He realized suddenly that a deafening silence had descended on the room. He was extremely uncomfortable, wished someone would say something. And then he was alarmed.

  “Maybe it’s me!” he said to himself, panicked, trying to recall his mother’s lessons in entertaining royalty. “Maybe I’m supposed to be the one making conversation.”

  Alhana was studying him intently. Her lovely eyes, turned upon him, effectively robbed him of coherent speech. Gil tried to say something, but discovered he had no voice. He looked from the senator to the queen and knew then that something was wrong.

  The sunlight was not permitted to enter this room. Curtains had been drawn across the windows. The shadows had at first seemed cool and restful. Now they were ominous, unnerving, like the pall that falls over the world before the unleashing of a violent storm. The very air was dangerous, charged with lightning.

  Alhana broke the silence. Her purple eyes darkened, deepened almost to black.

  “So this is your plan,” she said to Rashas, speaking Qualinesti with a slight accent that Gilthas recognized as belonging to her people, the Silvanesti.

  “Quite a good one, don’t you think?” Rashas answered her. He was calm, unmoved by her anger.

  “He is only a boy!” Alhana cried in a low voice.

  “He will have guidance, a wise counselor at his side,” Rashas replied.

  “You, of course,” she said scathingly.

  “The Thalas-Enthia elects the regent. I will, of course, be happy to offer my services.”

  “The Thalas-Enthia! You have that band of old men and women in your pocket!”

  Gil felt the knot tighten his stomach, the blood start to pound painfully in his head. Once again, adults were talking over, around, below, and above him. He might as well be one of those trees sprouting up out of the floor.

  “He doesn’t know, does he?” Alhana said. Her look on Gil now was one of pity.

  “I think perhaps he knows more than he lets on,” Rashas said with a sly smile. “He came of his own free will. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want this. And now, Your Majesty”—he said the title with fine sarcasm—“if you and Prince Gilthas will both excuse me, I have pressing business elsewhere. There is much to do in preparation for tomorrow’s ceremony.”

  The senator bowed, turned on his heel, and left the room. The servants shut the door immediately on his leaving.

  “Want what?” Gil was bewildered and angry himself. “What’s he talking about? I don’t understand.…”

  “Don’t you?” she said to him.

  Before he could reply, Alhana turned away. Her body was rigid, both fists clenched, nails digging into flesh.

  Feeling like a child who has been shut up in the nursery when the adults are having a party in the living room below, Gil stalked over to the door and flung it open.

  Two of the tall, strong Kagonesti elves planted their bodies before the door. Each held a spear in his hand.

  Gil started to shove between them.

  The elves did not move.

  “Excuse me, perhaps you don’t understand. I’m leaving now,” Gil said politely, but in a stern tone to show them he meant what he said.

  He stepped forward. The two said nothing. Their spears crossed in front of the door, in front of him.

  Rashas was just disappearing down the staircase.

  “Senator!” Gilthas called, trying to keep calm. The flame of his anger was starting to waver in fear’s chill wind. “There’s some sort of misunderstanding. These servants of yours won’t let me out!”

  Rashas paused, glanced back. “Those are their orders, my prince. You’ll find the suite of rooms you will be sharing with Her Majesty quite comfortable, the best in my household, in fact. The Wilder elves will provide you with whatever you want. You have only to ask.”

  “I want to leave,” Gilthas said quietly.

  “So soon?” Rashas was pleasant, smiling. “I couldn’t permit it. You’ve only just arrived. Rest, relax. Look out the windows, enjoy the view.

  “And by the way,” the senator added, proceeding down the stairs, his words floating upward. “I’m truly glad you find Qualinesti so beautiful, Prince Gilthas. You’re going to be living here a long, long time.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Dalamar!” Tanis beat on the bolted door. “Dalamar, damn you, I know you’re out there! I know you can hear me! I want to talk to you! I—”

  “Ah, my friend,” came a voice, practically in his ear. “I’m glad you’ve finally regained consciousness.”

  At the unexpected sound, Tanis nearly jumped through a stone wall. Once his heart had quit racing, he turned to face the dark elf, who stood in the center of the room, a slight smile on the thin lips.

  “Do stop this shouting. You’re disrupting my class. My students cannot concentrate on their spells.”

  “Damn your students! Where is my boy?” Tanis shouted.

  “He is safe,” Dalamar replied. “First—”

  Tanis lost control. Heedless of the consequences, he leapt at Dalamar, hands going for the dark elf’s throat.

  Blue lightning flared, crackled. Tanis was thrown backward. He crashed painfully into the wooden door. The shock of the magic was paralyzing. His limbs twitched; his head buzzed. He took a moment to recover, then, frustrated with his own helplessness, he started toward Dalamar again.

  “Stop it, Tanis,” the dark elf said sternly. “You’re acting like a fool. Face the facts. You are a prisoner in the Tower of High Sorcery—my tower. You are weaponless and even if you did have a weapon, you could do nothing to harm me.”

  “Give me my sword,” Tanis said, breathing heavily. “We’ll see about that.”

  Dalamar almost, but not quite, laughed. “Come now, my friend. I told you, your son is safe. How long he remains so is up to you.”

  “Is that a threat?” Tanis demanded grimly.

  “Threats are for the fearful. I merely state facts. Come, come, my friend! What has happened to your renowned logic, your legendary common sense? All flown out the window when the stork flew in?”3 “He’s my son. Those draconians— I was afraid—” Tanis gave up. “How could you understand? You’ve never been a parent.”

  “If degenerating into a mindless idiot is what it means to be a parent, I shall certainly take care that I never achieve such a dubious distinction. Please, sit down. Let us discuss this like rational men.”

  Glowering, Tanis stalked over to a comfortable armchair, placed near a welcome fire. Even on a warm spring day, the Tower of High Sorcery was dark and chill. The room in which he was impr
isoned was furnished with every luxury; he’d been provided with food and drink. His few minor wounds—scratches, mostly, from the draconian’s claws and a bump on the head—had been carefully tended.

  Dalamar seated himself in a chair opposite. “If you will listen with patience, I will tell you what is transpiring.”

  “I’ll listen. You talk.” Tanis’s voice softened, almost broke. “My son is all right? He is well?”

  “Of course. Gilthas would be of little use to his captors if he were not. You may take comfort in that fact, my friend. And I am your friend,” the dark elf added, seeing the angry flash in Tanis’s eyes. “Though I admit appearances are against me.

  “As for your son,” Dalamar continued, “he is where he has longed to be—his homeland, Qualinesti. It is his homeland, Tanis, though you don’t like to hear that, do you? The boy is lodged quite comfortably, probably being afforded every courtesy. Only natural for the elves to treat him with deference, respect—since he is to be their king.”

  Tanis couldn’t believe he’d heard right. He was on his feet again. “This is some sort of bad joke. What is it you want, Dalamar? What is it you’re really after?”

  The dark elf stood up. Gliding forward, he laid his hand gently on Tanis’s arm.

  “No joke, my friend. Or, if it is, no one is laughing. Gilthas is in no danger now. But he could be.”

  Once again, Tanis saw the vision he’d seen on Storm’s Keep—dark clouds, swirling around his son. Tanis lowered his head, to hide his burning tears. Dalamar’s grip on him tightened.

  “Get hold of yourself, my friend. We don’t have much time. Every minute is critical. There is a great deal to explain. And,” Dalamar added softly, “plans to make.”

  3 It is a kender belief that the stork delivers babies to fortunate households by dropping the babies down the chimney. Certainly, this might almost be true, for kender women have a wonderfully easy time during pregnancy and delivery. Babies really do seem to appear by magic. Thus kender families tend to be quite large; a good thing, since the attrition rate among kender is high. Relatively few kender ever live to a ripe old age.