by Mark Anthony
Tanis’s face grew hard. “Then when she saw me,” he said, “she knew the truth.” He tried to give the portrait back to the midwife, but she wouldn’t take it.
“No, Tanthalas.” Eld Ailea’s voice was gentle, but her hand was strong on his shoulder. “When she saw you, when she saw that face that you look at now, she seemed, I think, to change her mind. She roused enough to nurse her baby, but it was too much for her. She was simply too weak from all she had been through from Kethrenan’s death onward.” The midwife’s voice faltered. “She held you until she died.”
Silence hung in the room like a darkness, broken only by someone’s heavy breathing—Flint’s own, the dwarf realized. He cleared his throat and coughed.
After a pause, during which none of the three met the others’ eyes, Tanis asked, “What about the pendant?”
Eld Ailea took it from him. “It’s steel, very valuable. Kethrenan gave it to her when they were married. She wore it always. I’ve considered it a blessing that the brigands didn’t take that from her. She seemed to draw from it what little strength she had during those last months.” She walked over to Flint and showed him the amulet. Ivy and aspen leaves encircled the intertwined initials “E” and “K.” Scalloping decorated the edges of the circular disk.
There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. Flint and Tanis were drooping with fatigue, and even the ostensibly tireless midwife looked weary. As if by unspoken agreement, the men gathered by the door to leave; Eld Ailea moved to retrieve Tanis’s sword from where he’d left it by the fireplace. She hoisted it in its scabbard, then hesitated, an odd look on her face.
“This sword …”
Tanis spoke proudly. “Flint made it.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, stammering slightly. “It’s beautiful. Yet …”
The dwarf and half-elf waited while the midwife collected her thoughts. She inhaled, and seemed suddenly decisive. “Flint.” Her voice was sharp. “Come here.”
Flint moved to her side, gazing worriedly into her hazel eyes. “Could you fasten this pendant to this sword?” she asked. “Would it ruin the weapon?”
“Well, certainly it can be done, and no, it wouldn’t hurt it, but …”
“Permanently? That can be done?”
He nodded. Her expression caught him; it was an unsettling mixture of urgency and fear. He pointed to an open swirl in the hilt of the weapon. “I could attach it there.”
Her hand closed over his on the sword’s hilt. “Then do it,” she urged. “Tonight.”
“It’s so late …” Flint hedged.
Eld Ailea grasped his arm. “It must be done tonight. Will you? Without fail?” So close to the midwife, Flint suddenly saw the exhaustion, the years, that her sprightly character normally overshadowed. He promised, and she relaxed her grip.
Flint parted from Tanis at the Hall of the Sky. The half-elf continued north to the Speaker’s palace, and Flint went on home, carrying his friend’s sword.
The dwarf spent the next two hours doing as the midwife had asked.
Miral made almost no sound as he passed the pair of black-jerkined guards posted outside the Speaker’s private quarters at the palace; the guards hailed him and waved him on. At ease in the darkness, with only occasional torches to pain his eyes, he made his way quickly down one corridor to the stairwell. But instead of going down to the courtyard, he climbed the steps to the building’s second level.
He paused at Xenoth’s quarters, hearing the adviser’s roisterous snoring even through the door, then slipped by Tanis’s door, which stood slightly ajar, revealing a dark and empty interior. Miral imagined the half-elf was out walking the tiled streets of Qualinost, agonizing over the day’s developments.
In succession, the mage passed Porthios’s and Gilthanas’s rooms, until he arrived at Laurana’s. A light shone beneath her door, and he heard pacing within.
He knocked softly. The footsteps stopped, then approached the door. Laurana’s voice was low. “Who is it?”
“It is Miral, Lady Laurana. I apologize for bothering you at such an unconscionable time, but I need to speak with you.”
She opened the door. Miral caught his breath, as he did almost every time he saw the young princess. She was resplendent in a robe of watered silk. The aqua color brought out the glitter in her ashy hair and the coral tones of her curved lips. Momentarily, he fell speechless; then he chided himself for his lack of control.
“May I talk with you in private, Laurana? It’s about the Speaker’s announcement of your betrothal.”
Laurana’s exotic green eyes widened, and color rose in her cheeks. “Certainly … but not here.”
“No, of course not,” Miral said smoothly. “In the courtyard, then? I would not want to disturb anyone. This will not take long.”
She thought, tilting her head to one side. “Give me time to dress. I will meet you there in ten minutes.” Then she closed the door.
Well within the appointed time, Laurana, now more suitably garbed in a cloak and gown of dove-gray satin, was seated on a stone bench in the courtyard—the same bench that had witnessed the archery contest between Porthios and Tanis so many years before. But now the pear and peach trees stood bathed in silver light from Solinari, and the scent of blossoms was almost cloying. The steel door in the two-story marble edifice gleamed in the moonlight. She pulled the cloak tight around her.
Miral paced along the tiled path before her, his red robe appearing nearly black in the deep of the night. He seemed agitated. His hood had fallen back slightly, revealing pale features and the elf’s almost colorless eyes.
“What is it, Miral?” Laurana prompted gently. “You said it had something to do with Father’s announcement.”
“I … I wanted to offer my condolences.” The mage dipped his head. “I know that you prefer Tanthalas to Tyresian—which, I might add, shows considerable taste on your part.” He smiled engagingly, and she followed suit. “Tanthalas is by far the more suitable for one such as you, regardless of his … violent … heritage. I am certain that you could keep his uncontrolled tendencies under rein, my lady. After all, not all humans are savages, and I have long been impressed by Tanthalas.”
He dipped his head slightly, and the hood fell forward over his features again.
Laurana felt flustered, unsure how to sort the mage’s combination of praise and condemnation of Tanis. “Thank you, but I don’t see—”
“There is one even more suitable for you.”
Laurana felt a look of amazement cross her features before years of court training took over and she forced her face to go blank. When she spoke, her tone was carefully neutral. “And who is that, Miral?”
“Me.”
Laurana was on her feet before the word had stopped echoing in the night air between them. “You!” she said weakly. “Oh, I don’t—”
Miral’s tones were urgent. “Please hear me out, Laurana. If you reject me, I will never mention it again. I swear.”
Laurana thought wildly, trying to figure out how her father would handle such a delicate situation. Miral had been a faithful member of court for years, and he had won her father’s favor long ago for his service to her Uncle Arelas. In a similar situation, Solostaran, she knew, would give the mage time to speak.
“Please sit down, Laurana. This won’t take long.”
She sat. She had thought Tyresian too old for her, and Tyresian was only the same age as her brother Porthios. The mage, on the other hand, was decades older than that. “I am too young to marry, Miral.”
“But not to be promised. Isn’t that what you are with Tanis? Promised? Betrothed?”
Unbidden, Miral sank to the bench next to Laurana.
“I first saw you, years ago, when I came here at Arelas’s urging. You know my story?” Laurana nodded, not trusting her voice. She was suddenly aware of how quiet and deserted the courtyard was at night. She tried to remember whether the guards patrolled the courtyard as well as the interior of the palace.
>
“You were just a tiny girl—but what a girl! I’ve never seen such perfection. A bit spoiled, it’s true, and a bit more of a tomboy than I found attractive in an elf girl of noble blood, but perhaps, I thought, such vigor came from being born of the bloodline of Kith-Kanan.”
Laurana edged away from the mage, but his hand shot out and caught hers. He was stronger than she’d ever imagined. And his eyes … Oddly, she could see them quite well in the dark, even within the gloom of his hood. Fear cast a cold grasp around her spine. The mage’s voice continued, cutting through the silence of the Qualinost night.
“I loved watching you, Laurana. I volunteered to tutor you, even though it meant taking on that dolt of a brother of yours, Gilthanas. And Tanis. I loved and trusted Tanis, you know. For after all, weren’t you two being raised as brother and sister? What threat could he be to my suit, when it came? Then I found out yesterday how wrong I was about Tanis.” Miral’s grip tightened, and Laurana made a sound of protest. The sound broke her fear, and she rose to her feet, the mage seeking to drag her back.
“Wait!” the mage hissed. “Laurana, choose me. I may not be all powerful, but I am a stronger wizard than people think. Ultimately, I can offer you more power, more riches, than Tyresian and Tanis put together, if only you will be patient.”
Laurana, heart pounding in fear, broke away and retreated several steps. Miral rose slowly to his feet. “What is your answer?” he asked eagerly.
All thought of court decorum flew from Laurana’s mind. All she could think of was escape. Alienating the mage was of no concern now. Flight was. The Speaker would never keep Miral at court after he heard of tonight’s events.
“Leave me alone,” she demanded, drawing all her strength together, investing her voice with as much power as she could. “Leave this court. If you are gone in the morning, I promise I will not tell my father what has transpired. You will escape the humiliation of being removed from court.”
The mage stood, and she turned and strode through the moonlight toward the door. Behind her, she heard the mage mumble a few words, and she broke into a run. Mere feet from the steel doors, however, the spell burst within her brain, and she stumbled and fell in a faint.
She awakened in the corridor outside her room. Two palace guards, one carrying a lamp, gazed down on her with worried expressions; her head and shoulders rested on Miral’s lap. She looked up, confused. “Miral?” Laurana looked around. “How did I get out here?”
“I was passing along in the corridor when I heard your door open,” Miral said silkily. “I knew the day had been a grueling one for you, and I hastened to you to see if you were ill or needed help. You fainted as I approached. Don’t you remember?”
Laurana lay back weakly. “I … don’t remember anything. I recall walking around in my room, and then, suddenly, I was here.” Yet, she thought, it seemed as though she were forgetting something important. She shook her head, unable to think.
The mage’s clear eyes were fathomless. One hand dipped into the pocket of his robe and emerged with a small packet of dried leaves. “Pour this into a cup of hot water, my lady. It will ease your mind and help you sleep. I will send a servant to you with the water.”
She waited, still trying to collect her thoughts, then nodded. Miral and one of the guards helped her to her feet. Then the mage disappeared down the hallway. She stood in her doorway, with the guards looking anxiously on. Down the hallway, Lord Xenoth’s door suddenly opened and the adviser—curiously enough, fully clothed—peered out. Laurana ignored him, still annoyed by his unceasingly closed-minded treatment of Tanis and Flint.
Her irritation with the adviser vanished as she tried to clear her thoughts. Something, some memory, seemed to be niggling just out of her reach. What was it?
Well, whatever it was, if it were important, she’d remember it later. She bade the guards good night and shut herself in her room again.
Chapter 16
The Interview
One of the Speaker’s servants intercepted Tanis shortly before dawn the next morning as the half-elf strode from the palace to the stables to check on Belthar, his horse. The servant informed Tanis that Solostaran wanted to see him in the Speaker’s anteroom immediately.
But when Tanis arrived at Solostaran’s chambers at the Tower, the guards standing outside the door told Tanis that the Speaker was with someone and that he would be ready for his conversation with Tanis shortly. Tanis thanked them, then slinked down the hall to wait, finding a seat in an alcove.
The door to the Speaker’s office opened, and Porthios stepped out. He nodded to the guard and walked purposefully in the direction opposite Tanis, apparently not seeing the half-elf in the alcove. Tanis let out a tight breath of relief, and when Porthios had gone, he made his way to the door. The guard showed him in immediately, shutting the door behind him, and Tanis swallowed hard, wondering what the Speaker had to say to him.
The Speaker sat at his desk, looking over a sheaf of parchments, an oil lamp casting a pool of light on the papers. The golden trim on the Speaker’s green robes glittered in the lamplight. When the door clicked shut, he immediately set the parchments down and looked up, as if he hadn’t really been reading them. The room, with its glass walls, was beginning to glow pinkish gray in the dim light just before dawn.
“Tanthalas,” the Speaker said, his voice neutral. He didn’t offer a chair, so Tanis remained standing.
“You wished to see me, Speaker,” Tanis said. He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before in the presence of the Speaker, but somehow, this day, Tanis found himself afraid.
The Speaker nodded. “Yesterday was a trying day, Tanthalas,” he said softly. He stood and paced about the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “I knew it would be difficult to promise the hand of Lauralanthalasa to another, but I had little choice. The promise had been sworn between two houses long ago. Countless agreements, numerous treaties, depend on the elves’ faith that the Speaker of the Sun will always keep his word. What could I do?”
He seemed to be arguing with himself, rather than speaking to Tanis. “Should I have stepped down from the rostrum, been Speaker no longer, to save my daughter?”
Tanis nearly gasped. Abdicate?
But the Speaker shook his head. “And what would that accomplish? Porthios would take my place, and then the promise would fall to his shoulders and little would have changed. So you see, Tanis, I kept the promise. The honor of our house demanded it.” He looked piercingly at Tanis then, and the half-elf involuntarily winced.
“Nor is Tyresian a poor choice for Laurana,” the Speaker went on, and Tanis felt his heart thudding. “So, though I knew it would be a difficult task, I resolved myself to do it, to announce the betrothal.
“Tell me, Tanis, why have things gone this way?” the Speaker asked. “I do not understand, nor has anyone been able to explain to me, how my daughter could somehow have promised herself to the boy I brought into my home and raised as her brother. And for the first time ever, I find Laurana unwilling …” The Speaker paused for a moment, a hand passing before his eyes. But then the moment was gone, and his regal bearing returned. “I find her unwilling to speak with me. Tell me, Tanis. Why does my own daughter defy me?”
Tanis shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.
“But you, of all people, must know, Tanis,” the Speaker said, his voice taking on an edge. “You have always been closest to her of my children. And now I find that perhaps you are closer than I thought.” His eyes flashed green.
“No, it’s not that at all,” Tanis said, his heart galloping in his chest. “It was just a game we played, a long time ago, that’s all.”
“A game?” the Speaker said. His voice was soft, but there was a sharpness that left Tanis chilled. “This is a serious matter, Tanthalas,” he said, advancing toward the half-elf, his robes rippling around him. “The integrity of our house, the harmony of the court, the very peace this city is founded upon, are at stake her
e. This is not a time for games!”
Tanis shook his head, his face hot. He tried to say something, anything, but no words came.
“First Laurana all but defies me before the entire court,” Solostaran continued. “And I hoped that you would have learned from that, that you would have seen the effects of what you’d wrought, for you have always been dear to me, and I’d thought that you respected me. But then I learned that only hours later you were with her again in the courtyard, that she flung her arms about you and kissed you like … like …” The Speaker’s words faltered, but then he gathered himself. His eyes glinted, and his voice was rough. “This is a dark game you are playing with her, Tanis. You are a member of this court and should respect its decrees. You are my ward. You are her brother and she, your sister.”
The Speaker’s eyes went wide, the rage draining from them, leaving his face gaunt. His shoulders sagged, and he grasped the edge of his desk as if to steady himself.
“Excuse me, Tanis,” he whispered.
Tanis helped the Speaker into his chair.
“It’s just that things have been so hard, leading up to this past day,” the Speaker said. He gestured to a decanter of wine, and Tanis poured a cup for the Speaker to sip. “And since yesterday, courtiers have been at me like hounds nipping at the flanks of a stag. And what was I to tell them? That my ward was going to marry the woman whom all considered his sister—in name, if not in actuality? That I would break my word?” He shook his head. “But try to understand. It is not you I’m angry with. It’s the court and its narrow-mindedness, about you, about your heritage.”
Tanis sighed. He desperately wanted to believe the Speaker, and true enough, that old warmth radiated from his surrogate father now.
“I’ve told you the truth,” Tanis said. “I love Laurana, of course, but as my sister. I’m not sure what to do now.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Laurana can be pretty stubborn.”
