by Dragon Lance
“Go,” the Speaker said in a tired voice. “I thank you for your efforts. Go.”
With many bows and flourishes, the healers and clerics took their leave of Kith-Kanan. The Speaker turned away to stare out one of the windows. Only Tamanier remained in the hall.
“My old friend,” Kith-Kanan said to him. “What am I to do? I almost think the gods have cursed me, Tam. I’ve buried two wives, found that one son was a criminal and another may be insane. What am I to do?”
At the far end of the small hall, the aged castellan took in a deep breath. “Perhaps young Silveran has always been troubled,” he ventured. “After all, his early life and birth were not natural, and his powers are wild and uncontrolled.”
The Speaker slumped back on his throne. He felt every day of his five hundred and some-odd years of life weigh upon him like stones in the folds of his robe, or chains laid in long loops around his shoulders.
“I followed all the signs,” he murmured. “Has it all been a terrible hoax? It can’t be. Silveran must be my true heir, I know it. But how can we cure him? I can’t put my crown on the head of a mad person.”
“Sire,” said Tamanier, “I am reluctant to bring this up – especially now. But Prince Ulvian wishes to speak with you.”
The Speaker started, his mind far away. “What, Tam?”
“Prince Ulvian has asked to see you, sire.”
The Speaker gathered his wandering thoughts. With a nod, he said, “Very well. Send him in.”
Tamanier pushed the doors apart. An eddy of wind from the porticoed exterior sent a handful of dead leaves skittering across the burnished wooden floor of the hall. The castellan admitted Prince Ulvian, then departed, closing the doors quietly behind him.
“Speaker,” said Ulvian, bowing from the waist. Kith-Kanan waved for him to approach.
It took Ulvian twenty steps to cross the audience hall. In the months since his return from Pax Tharkas and Black Stone Peak, the prince had radically altered his looks and manner. Gone were the extravagant lace cuffs, the brilliantly colored and astonishingly expensive breeches and boots. Ulvian had taken to wearing plain velvet tunics in dark blue, black, or green, with matching trousers and short black boots. Heavy necklaces and bold gems on his fingers had given way to a simple silver chain around his neck, with a locket containing a miniature of his mother. Ulvian let his hair grow longer, in a more elven fashion, and shaved off his beard. Save for his broad jaw and round eyes, he could have been taken for a full-blooded elf.
“Father, I want you to send me away,” he said after bowing a second time at the foot of the throne. “Away? Why?”
“I feel it is time to complete my education. I’ve wasted too much time on frivolous pleasures. There are many things I want to learn.”
Kith-Kanan sat upright. This curious request intrigued him. “Where is it you wish to go for this education?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Silvanost.”
The Speaker raised his eyebrows. In a gentle voice, he said, “Ulvian, that’s impossible. Sithas would never allow it.”
Ulvian took a step forward. The toes of his boots pressed against the base of the vallenwood throne. “But I want to learn from the wise elves of the east, in the most ancient temples in the world. Surely the Speaker of the Stars would permit his own kin —”
“It cannot be, my son.” Kith-Kanan leaned forward and laid a hand on Ulvian’s shoulder. “You are half-human. The Silvanesti would not welcome you.”
The prince flinched as if his father had struck him. “Then send me to Thorbardin, or Ergoth! Anywhere!” Ulvian said desperately.
“Why do you wish to leave so suddenly?”
The prince’s eyes dropped before the Speaker’s questioning gaze. “I – I told you, Father. I want to complete my education.”
“You aren’t telling me the truth, Son,” Kith-Kanan contended.
“All right. I want to get away from this house. I can’t bear it anymore!” He jerked out of his father’s grip.
“What do you mean?”
Ulvian fidgeted with his narrow gray sash. Finally he turned away, putting his back to the Speaker. “His screams keep me awake at night,” he said stiffly; “I – I hear him wandering the halls, moaning. I can’t bear it, Father. I know he’s your legitimate heir, and I can’t expect him to go away, so I thought I’d volunteer to leave instead.”
Kith-Kanan rose and walked to his son. “Your brother is ill,” he said. “If it’s any consolation to you, he keeps me awake at night, too.”
The dark smudges under Kith-Kanan’s eyes testified to the truth of his statement. “I wish you would stay and help Silveran, Ullie. He needs a good friend.”
The somberly dressed prince knelt and gathered a handful of red and brown leaves from the floor. Slowly he turned them over, as if studying their wrinkled surfaces. “Do the healers give him any chance of recovery?” he asked, staring at the leaves.
Kith-Kanan sighed. “They don’t even agree on why he is afflicted,” he replied.
Ulvian dropped the leaves and stood. Turning to face his father, the prince said quietly, “If you want me to stay, Father, I will.”
Kith-Kanan grasped his son’s hands gratefully. “Thank you, Ullie,” he said, smiling. “I was hoping you’d stay.”
The prince had never planned to do otherwise. Back in his own quarters, Ulvian ran his fingers lightly down the front of his heavy quilted tunic. The hard lump of the black onyx amulet was there, sheathed in a tight leather bag hanging around his neck.
“My beauty,” Ulvian rejoiced softly. “It goes well! Soon I will be sole and undisputed heir.”
You deserve it, my prince, crooned the amulet for Ulvian’s ears only. Together we will rule.
The prince busied himself putting the finishing touches to the speech he would give when he was made heir to the Throne of the Sun.
Chapter 19
THE DEATH OF THE SUN
Before the first frost, they moved Silveran to a room at the end of the south wing of the Speaker’s house. In this secluded chamber, his nightly ravings wouldn’t disturb those sleeping near the center of the great house. Tamanier, as keeper of the keys, had the duty of locking Silveran in his room each night. If his cries became too loud, a sleeping draft would be brought for him to drink. Only through powerful soporifics could they hold back the relentless specter that haunted the young elf. The strong medicines left him groggy and befuddled most of his waking hours.
When Solinari, the silver moon, first called the fingers of frost over Qualinesti, Silveran was sleeping fitfully in his pitiful cell. There was no furniture or lamp or anything else he might use to harm himself or others. Of his blankets, only two hadn’t been shredded by fevered hands as he struggled to keep the hideous phantom at bay.
Greenhands, dead Dru called. Rise, murderer. Tonight, you join me in the land of the dead.
“No,” Silveran groaned. “Oh, no, please!”
Your time is all used up. Rise! I am coming for you!
“No!”
With a sudden spasm, the elf jerked awake. His heart hammered inside his ribs, and his breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. “You’ll not take me! You’ll not!”
He scrambled to his feet. The door to his room was locked from the outside. Panic seized Silveran. He stood and kicked the locked door hard.
The thick wooden panel boomed but stayed firm. Knowing his son’s great strength, Kith-Kanan had sadly ordered the door be the stoutest that could be found.
Greenhands, murderer...
In desperation, Silveran threw his entire body at the door. Under his frenzied assault, the jamb splintered, and the door flew wide. The dark hall outside was cold. Winter rugs had not yet been laid on the bare wood floor, and the elf’s teeth chattered as he staggered out into the chill.
To his left were door-sized windows, shuttered. Through the slats of the seven-foot-tall shutters came a weird, yellow-green light. Silveran uttered a short, sharp cry and recoiled from the
slivers of sickly light slicing in between the slats. Laughter rang in his head – Dru’s laughter, mingled with the sound of rattling chains.
He ran down the hall, blindly blundering from one closed door to another. These ground floor rooms were unoccupied, as the Speaker was entertaining no guests. Silveran shook each door handle and pounded on each panel, but he couldn’t get in. The chartreuse light grew stronger, until it cast Silveran’s own long shadow to the end of the empty hall.
The light seeped through the closed shutters like oil through cheesecloth. As the petrified elf watched, it coalesced into the rough form of an elf. Silveran pressed his back against a locked door and stared in abject terror. The greenly glowing form assumed distinct arms and legs – but no head. The neck rose up, but where the head should be was only darkness.
Flee if you can, murderer! I have come for you! boomed the voice.
Silveran bolted from the shelter of the doorway and ran down the hall, crying out in horror.
He crossed the receiving room at the main entrance on the ground floor and seized the first available doorknob. This was the Speaker’s trophy room. Here were displayed Kith-Kanan’s various suits of armor, his personal weapons, as well as flags and standards captured from the Ergothians during the Kinslayer War. Silveran wove his way among the stands of halberds, swords, and pikes. The glint of metal gave him an idea, a mad idea. He would kill the wretched ghost again – for good this time – and be safe. Safe and free.
But the pikes and swords were held in their racks by strong loops of chain and wire, and none came easily to hand. Silveran hurried by them and went to the rear wall, scanning the trophies mounted there. These were not, properly speaking, weapons, but rather tools the Speaker had used in his long career. The saw he had wielded to fell the first tree when Qualinost was being built. The mason’s trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the Tower of the Sun. The hammer King Glenforth of Thorbardin had given him to carve out the first block for the fortress of peace, Pax Tharkas.
The hammer rested on a small pedestal under a crystal dome. The silver bands on its handle sparkled, and its gilded head gleamed. The dome was not sealed, and Silveran quickly sent it crashing to the floor. The hammer fit his grip as if made for him.
He exulted. The mighty dwarven hammer would smash diamonds to dust if swung smartly and struck fairly. Now he would deal with the monster Drulethen. His torment would soon be finished!
The door of the trophy room opened slowly. The elf huddled in the shadows, hammer couched on his shoulders. A pale yellow light filtered in from the open door, and a voice whispered, “Silveran? Are you in here?”
“Yes!” he shouted, leaping on the door and wrenching it fully open. He saw for a second a grinning, fleshless skull staring at him with empty white eye sockets, heard the mocking laughter in his ears. “Now I will kill you forever, Dru!” Silveran screamed and brought the hammer down in a smashing blow on Dru’s skull. Bone yielded under the awful impact, and he smelled blood. The yellow light went out.
Silveran collapsed in a limp heap on the floor. He’d done it. He’d killed Dru completely. Now he was free. His eyelids fluttered closed just as more light filled the room.
Tamanier, Ulvian, and Verhanna lifted their lamps high. Behind them, sleepy servants muttered about their interrupted rest. The lamplight fell upon the scene in the Speaker’s trophy room.
“By all the holy gods!” Tamanier cried. “He’s killed the Speaker!”
*
The entire Guard of the Sun was roused and turned out of their barracks while the best healers in Qualinost were summoned to the Speaker’s house. Kith-Kanan bore a terrible wound on his head where the dwarven hammer had broken his skull. But he was not dead. His heart beat, and he drew breath, but the Speaker of the Sun had not opened his eyes since the tragedy.
Strangely, Silveran was likewise insensible. His body was unmarked, yet he could not be roused, even when foul-smelling asafetida was waved under his nose. All signs of madness had left him; his face was peaceful, and the deep lines in his brow were smoothed out. He looked like a sleeping child, lying on the floor by his mortally wounded father.
Verhanna refused any help and carried her father to his bed. Tamanier explained how Kith-Kanan had heard the disturbance Silveran had caused and had gone, without summoning any guards, to investigate.
“I will never forgive myself,” the old castellan said, wringing his hands. “I should have gone in his stead!”
“Never mind,” Ulvian said unsteadily as they mounted the steps on each side of Verhanna. “No one knew this was going to happen. Silveran must have struck out at Father in a delirium.”
In truth, the prince was much shaken by this turn of events. He had never desired Kith-Kanan’s death, and he somehow realized the amulet had deliberately maneuvered father and son together for just this result. Now the evil talisman wouldn’t have to wait long for Ulvian to receive that which he’d requested. In days – perhaps hours – Ulvian would be Speaker of the Sun.
Aytara and the entire college of Quen arrived, and they were put to work trying to save Kith-Kanan’s life. Silveran merited only a passing glance. Aside from the fact that he couldn’t be awakened, he seemed in perfect health. The high priestess didn’t wish to waste a single spell or incantation on the uninjured elf; all the magic they could gather would be needed for the Speaker. Two of the guards carried the Speaker’s unconscious son to a small room on the second floor of the great house. Their orders were to chain him and stand guard at his door.
Kith-Kanan was dying.
Soon the whole house was saturated with the smell of incense and the sound of chanting. The Clerics of Quen invoked their mightiest spells, and they succeeded in slowing the creep of death through the Speaker’s limbs, but they couldn’t stop it. Aytara admitted as much to Verhanna and Ulvian in the sitting room of their father’s chambers.
“How – how long will he live?” asked Verhanna, silent tears trickling down her face.
“A day. Perhaps two. He is very strong. A normal elf would have died on the spot from such a blow. You should be prepared, my lady. The end could come at any time.”
“Is there nothing you can do?”
Aytara bowed. Her white robes were wrinkled, her sky-blue sash loosely tied. She, too, was crying. “No, Highness. I am deeply sorry.”
Verhanna nodded and the high priestess departed.
After a silent moment, Ulvian coughed. “There remains the matter of my succession,” he said. Verhanna. Glared. “What succession?”
“When our father dies, who will be the next Speaker? Certainly not our mad half-brother.”
Snarling with outrage, Verhanna seized her brother by the front of his shirt and propelled him backward out the door and into the hallway, until he thudded against a pillar. “Don’t talk to me about crowns!” she said through clenched teeth. “Our father isn’t even dead yet, and already you crave his scepter! I tell you this, Brother, if you mention such a thing to me again before Father is gone, I’ll kill you. I’ll gut you like a wild pig! Is that clear?”
Mastering the fear that trembled through his body, Ulvian said that it was. He had no doubt she meant what she said. Though he clutched her arms, he knew he’d never break her grip.
Verhanna felt something hard under her wrist. She plucked open Ulvian’s blue shirt, sending buttons flying. There was a leather bag hanging around his neck. Her brother’s eyes were wide with fear and anger.
“What’s this?” she hissed. When he didn’t reply, she drew her dagger in her left hand and held it to his face.
For an instant, he thought Verhanna was going to slit his throat, but all she did was cut the thong holding the leather bag. Stepping back, she pried it open and found the onyx amulet.
“What are you doing with this?” she demanded.
“It’s just a lump of carved stone,” he said, his voice quavering. Ulvian prayed silently for the amulet to intervene. Nothing happened.
“This was d
estroyed in the fire when Drulethen was —” Verhanna stopped in midsentence. Her head snapped around in the direction of their father’s bedchamber. Slowly she turned back to Ulvian, her face suffused with blood.
“You!” she breathed.
“No, Hanna, it wasn’t —”
She seized her brother again, shoving him so hard against the pillar that his vision filled with stars. “Let me go! You’ll regret it if you hurt me!” he babbled.
“I haven’t got time for you now,” she muttered fiercely. She let him go. Ulvian’s feet dropped to the
floor.
“Sergeant of the guard!” Verhanna bawled. A warrior with a fanlike array of horsehair on the top of his helmet came running down the corridor. “Post a guard around this room,” she ordered. “No one is to enter but I myself, Tamanier Ambrodel, or the holy lady Aytara. Got that?”
The guard glanced sideways at the prince. “Is my lord Ulvian to be excluded, Captain?” he asked.
“He most certainly is. If I find out anyone else but the three I named has gone in there, I’ll have your head.”
The sergeant, a seasoned warrior, swallowed hard. “It shall be done, Captain!” he vowed.
A squad of eight guards formed before the doors to the Speaker’s rooms. It was nearly dawn. Verhanna left Tamanier to make the announcement to the people. Already heralds clad in golden tabards were appearing in the halls, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and tugging on their ankle-high boots. The old castellan, strain and sorrow written into every line on his face, shepherded the elf boys and girls into an adjoining room. Minutes later, the heralds emerged, red-eyed and weeping. They raced out of the building to cry the sorrowful news to the waking city.
Verhanna went to see Silveran. The guards outside the chamber stood aside for her as she unlocked the thick door of his room.
“Captain,” one of the guards said to her before she entered, “you’d best look at his hands.”
She was weary and heartsick and still angry with Ulvian, and she told the guard she had no patience for riddles.
