by Dave Smeds
“I don't wish to. But I will."
Elenya swallowed hard.
Lonal muttered under his breath. “I underestimated your resourcefulness. Very well, then, you will go."
“Thank you, war-leader,” Gast said pleasantly.
Lonal stared at Alemar. “I should have dueled you,” he said.
* * * *
Elenya waited while her brother and the Hab-no-ken returned to the tent to prepare for the journey. Omi followed behind Alemar, a stricken, plaintive look on her face. Lonal watched them as well, and it was only after they were out of sight that he noticed Elenya.
“I could be gone, too,” she said, using the High Speech. “If Tebec could find a way out of your web, so can I. Then where would you be?"
“I don't follow you,” Lonal said.
“You want something from us, but you've never offered anything in return."
“What you want is impossible for me to give."
“Setan?” she asked. She knew she could get him on the defensive. Someone had to bear the brunt of the loss she felt. “Ah, but look at what just happened. My brother has found a way there. Surely you're not so uninspired that you can't think of another. Be creative. How could I be allowed in Setan, and still obey your precious laws?"
“You were born an infidel. It would be a crime merely to let you near the holy grounds. Unless..."
“Yes?"
Lonal scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Some dispensation might be made ... if you were hai-Zyraii."
“Go on."
“In that event, it would be permissible to take you to the site. Once there, you could petition the ken to let you enter the boundary. I cannot promise that they would do so."
“If I agree to help you, will you do this?” she demanded.
He paused. “Yes,” he said finally, with conviction. It satisfied her. Lonal was a man of his word, if nothing else. “But becoming hai-Zyraii may not be as simple as you think."
“I'll find a way,” she replied.
* * *
XXVII
KERON FELT FOOTFALLS BEHIND HIM. He turned. The elderly figure in embroidered robes smiled.
“My lord king,” Keron said, bowing his head.
Pranter, rightful king of Elandris, joined his cousin. His Majesty was now one hundred five years of age, an occurrence remarkable not so much because of the sheer number of years he had lived, but because of the war and attempted assassinations he had lived through in order to get there. He still stood straight, pupils bright, voice authoritative, a living tribute to the skill of the best healer/sorcerers in the known lands. He had been the pillar of the resistance that had held Gloroc at bay for decades. He might die soon, but no one doubted that he would face death as stubbornly as he had Elandris's great enemy.
“Come to watch your boy?” the king said cheerfully.
“Yes,” Keron replied. “However, I have been standing too long. Why don't we move to the gallery?"
Keron and Pranter ambled slowly up the shallow steps of the amphitheater, to one of the seats reserved for the king. Below, on the polished marble floor, the chief wizards of Elandris conducted their tests. Once each year, members of the royal family collected in this hall—never too many at the same time, for that would tempt assassins of the Dragon—to bring forth the talismans left by their revered ancestor, Alemar Dragonslayer. Even as he walked, Keron kept his eyes on the activities. The talismans included his belt, and at the moment, one of his younger cousins was wearing it, trying to lift weights. Keron still vividly remembered his sixteenth year, when suddenly the massive iron barbells had risen in his arms like a basket of cotton. He was the first in three generations to be able to activate its magic.
“Val's a capable young man,” Pranter said, nodding toward the lean, dark-haired youth waiting his turn at the weights. The king had difficulty getting into his seat, which Keron tactfully ignored. Pranter was proud and never enjoyed having to be helped. “Though the four winds know if he will have the gift."
Their banter was informal, this being one of those rare times when they could speak freely. Only the wizards and the sons of Alemar entered this place. It was the family's sanctum, and only they would know the results of the tests undertaken this day.
Pranter lightly stroked his scepter. Perhaps the most famous of the devices the great wizard had left behind, it could, with a thought from its owner, create a ward that would defy both physical and sorcerous threat. It was Pranter's badge of office, his proof above all else that he was a true son of the Dragonslayer. Only those of the wizard's lineage were closely enough attuned to stimulate the talismans. No one since the wizard's time had been able to use all of them.
“My heart is troubled,” the king told Keron. “Gloroc has become more aggressive lately."
“There have always been lulls and swells,” Keron said.
“True, but the Dragon has usually been cautious. Old age will not claim him for five thousand years. He can afford to wait until a fool comes to the throne, or until we make a military mistake. His strategy is shifting."
“My lord knows best,” Keron said. He knew by then that this meeting had not been by accident.
“How long have you been admiral of my navy?"
“Over fifteen years, Your Highness."
“About twenty, then, since you ferreted out that eel Warnyre."
“Yes."
“There are more like him now within the court. Some, I'm sure, quite close to the throne. Who knows whom Gloroc has swayed to his ends? He corrupted my own grandfather with his powers."
Keron did not dispute his liege. The fact was that, since those times, the Dragon had remained sequestered within his palace, seen only by his high commanders, and none of the royal family of the present generation had been physically close enough to him to have come under his mental spell. Still, the lesson of Pranter's grandfather, King Othwind, was hard to ignore. That incident had caused half the kingdom to fall to Gloroc.
“I jump at my own shadow,” Pranter continued. “If it were not so draining, I would use the scepter and sleep inside a ward every night.” He held up the device, which he would soon hand to the chief wizard to be used in the tests. “But as a matter of fact, I haven't been able to use it for years."
“My lord?"
“Oh, I know. I shouldn't tell anyone, not even you. You might be an agent of the Dragon.” Pranter cleared his throat. “But I would like to trust someone."
“I'll try to be worthy of it,” Keron said firmly, though the king's gesture made him uneasy. Pranter had not lived so long by being naïve. Was the king baiting him? Was the scepter genuinely useless?
“Look at them,” Pranter said sourly. A pair of his grandnephews were testing the amulets, a pair of gold necklaces adorned by single emeralds. Reportedly, they had been used by Alemar Dragonslayer to communicate telepathically with his sister, Miranda. They would also warn the wearers if spells were being cast nearby, and it was rumored that the wearers could transfer their speed and agility back and forth between themselves, squaring it in the process. “No one's been able to use those for a thousand years. I wonder why we bother to test them. How many talismans are active today? The scepter? No longer. That leaves your belt and the globe. A few toys against the strength of Gloroc."
“We are still a mighty kingdom,” Keron said.
The king shook his head sadly. “Gloroc will find the chink in our armor. I fear he may have his chance, come the succession."
Keron pursed his lips. The king had uttered a treason that, coming from the lips of any other citizen of Elandris, could have earned execution.
“What do you think of my son, Admiral?"
Keron felt sweat pop out of his pores. The truth? If he were suspect, his life could depend on how he responded.
“No,” Pranter said presently. “I won't force your answer. I'll say it myself: My son is a good man, cultured and obedient, but he is not made to rule an empire. He would crumble under the burden."
“That is the problem. Imagine the unpopularity of a decision to deny him the throne, in place of, say, a member of a lesser house who has distinguished himself militarily, and who, unlike the prince, can control one of the talismans?"
“Are you serious?” Keron whispered. “It would be cause for civil war!"
“That is true ... unless the crown prince were already dead. Let us say that an assassin of the Dragon managed to reach him."
Keron felt a cold snake crawl up his spine. He couldn't believe the king was serious. “Could you bring yourself to do such a thing?” Keron asked.
“The answer, I'm afraid, is no. I love my son, Admiral, does that surprise you? But curse me for a sentimental fool. As long as I retained my vigor, I had hoped that time would solve the problem. Now it is too late. I am on my last legs. Even if the prince should die, and I should name you my heir, all would say that it was the act of a senile, grief-stricken man. No, the only safe succession is the expected one.
“But I carry a heavy conscience. My son is safe, but is the kingdom? Will my weakness open the breach through which the Dragon inserts his power? If only some of my younger sons were of the right mettle. Why did you have to be such a distant relative?"
A shout rang through the hall. Down on the floor, Keron's son had put on his father's belt and was holding the barbells far above his head, with one hand. The wizards converged around him.
“You see,” Pranter said. “The Blood of Alemar is strong in your line. My loins have betrayed me."
* * * *
It was late. Keron had paid his respects to the king and departed with his son to celebrate activation of the belt. The talisman had always been the easiest of the devices to use, but to have two living individuals able to make it function had not happened for generations. Unable to publicly proclaim the event, Keron and Nanth staged a hearty supper which their other children and representatives of royal houses attended. Val was so taken with himself he didn't even notice his father leave the feast early.
The Chamber of the Oracle echoed the breathing of the ocean. The room, a windowless hemisphere accessed only by a single corridor, lay deep within the palace of Firsthold, many fathoms under the surface. Keron squatted on the polished floor and set down his small burden. It fluttered in its deep bowl, expanding its jellylike parachute membrane. Keron hesitated a moment, then thrust his hand into the bowl.
The ospris wrapped its tendrils around his fingers. He withdrew his hand instantly. Streaks of fire penetrated his skin wherever the ctenophore's appendages had touched him. Drops of salt water fell from the tips of his spasmed fingers, dribbling onto the slick marble.
He sat down, cross-legged, facing the dais, and allowed the poison to take effect. His body quickly became leaden. He heard the blood of his carotid arteries flowing behind his ears, listened to the humming of his brain, and noticed the slight swaying of his torso with each pulse. His head felt like it was floating away.
He waited.
The stinging of the ospris faded. His meditation deepened. Somewhere within, a nagging voice reminded him that the oracle had not replied to a question in four years.
He waited twelve hours. His legs slept, but he did not. And then the Oracle of Miranda stood before him, her complexion preternaturally vivid, her figure firm and young. She was dressed in plain white, a contrast to her night-black hair. Her expression, as if she had living eyes with which to observe him, contained a compassion he had never associated with her.
“I have come, nephew,” she said. The voice, clear, feminine, and youthful, originated at no specific point. “What is your question?"
He could see her, he could hear her, he could even smell traces of perfume, but he knew that if he were to stride forward to touch her, she wouldn't be there.
“What may I do to defeat the Dragon?"
She chuckled. “Do you know how many have asked that question of me in the last century?"
“Yes."
“And yet you ask it?"
“Yes."
Miranda's robes shuffled as she paced slowly about the dais, her movement creating sound but no wind. “Do you think you are worthy to hear the answer?"
Keron thought for several seconds, then shrugged. “How am I to judge?"
She came to the very edge of the dais and extended her hands. “Come forward,” she said.
He struggled to his feet, almost unable to make his numb legs work. When he had approached, Miranda took his head between her hands. Keron felt a disorienting buzz. Something pressed against his temples. The contours felt like fingers and palms, but the sense of energy was beyond the limits of any fleshly touch. It seemed to reach inside his head.
He watched Miranda's expression change from calm concentration to surprise to bright-eyed interest. “At last,” she murmured.
She disengaged and returned to the center of the dais, the excitement evident in her every step. She spun, facing Keron again, and said, “Listen carefully."
“I will."
“Know that there are talismans of Alemar not accounted for. Seek those that were left in Setan. Only one of the Blood may fetch them. This is vital. Send no one after them except children of the Dragonslayer. After the talismans are in your hands, one will appear who can make use of them. Then, perhaps, Gloroc will be defeated. That is all."
She blew him a kiss and was gone, like a dandelion in a sudden gust.
* * * *
There were only three men in the private study of the king: Pranter himself, Keron, and Gelle, chief royal historian. The latter spoke.
“There came a time, after Alemar had built the empire and brought it to glory, that he grew tired of rule. He left the day-to-day administration to his great-grandson, Imt, and retired from public life. Thereafter, he dwelt in his chambers deep within the palace, engaged in sorcery, and appeared only at special occasions. By the time of Harath the Third, he had vanished altogether, except to rumor. At Harath's coronation, it was Miranda who placed the crown on the king's head. She herself was rarely seen.
“Then, two centuries later, Alemar suddenly came into the light and requisitioned a group of architects and construction personnel, as well as quarry workers and sailors. He took command of three of the fleet's best cargo ships, and sailed to Carajen in the Gulf of Anrahou. From there, his caravan went into the Eastern Deserts, at that time an empty land. For some years, shipments of food goods for his work crew followed, along with various materials and additional artisans.
“Then, as suddenly as he had gone, Alemar returned, along with his helpers who, though they were asked to speak of what they had labored upon, said nothing. Occasionally one of them would attempt to do so, and be stricken dead on the spot. In due time, all these individuals lived out their natural spans, and not long after Alemar and Miranda disappeared from the kingdom without announcement. Of the place in the Eastern Deserts, the only trace we possess is the name: Setan."
“Then we don't know where this place is?” the king said.
“No, sire. There is a Setan within the land of Zyraii, a nomad nation. It is some sort of holy relic. No one is sure how it obtained the name. It could be the same place."
“Do we have maps?"
“None that we could trust, my lord. The Eastern Deserts have never been part of the empire."
“The facts fit,” Keron said. “It is very conceivable that Alemar could have left talismans—perhaps his most powerful—in this place."
“Why?"
“Perhaps to keep foolish men from trying to use them inappropriately. Perhaps to hide them from the Dragon."
“The Dragon did not appear until my great-grandfather's reign,” Pranter argued.
“But the Dragonslayer knew the child of Faroc and Triss was out there, waiting for its time. He may have prepared for the eventuality."
The king sighed, but nodded. “Very well. We are beggars. We can't afford not to investigate the p
ossibility. But tell me this—which of my kin will I burden with this duty? The Dragon watches us all. He knows the wizard's brood. The moment one of us removes himself from the protection of royal Elandris, the risk is very great that the Claw will find him. And even if he should slip away successfully, the absence of any of the Blood will be noticed. The wrong questions will be asked."
Keron had already considered this, and had an answer. He asked first that the historian retire. The king and the scholar both scowled, but eventually yielded to Keron's insistence.
“Well, Admiral? What is your inspiration?"
It tumbled out. For the first time in twenty years, Keron told someone the story of his bastard children in Cilendrodel, whom he had seen only twice in their lives. “I have often thought, now that they are fully grown, to bring them to Elandris,” he concluded. “Their mother has recently died. But I have seen no reason to endanger their safety. Yet now the risk is justified. They could make their way from Cilendrodel to the Eastern Deserts and back without Gloroc ever suspecting that any of the Blood were abroad."
“Your resources continue to delight me,” Pranter stated. “It is good. If the Dragon were aware of their existence, they would have been killed before now. See to it, then."
“Yes, my liege. But may I ask a boon?"
“Of course! You have given an old whale his first bit of hope in two decades."
“Let me send the amulets of Alemar to them. I have a feeling that they might be able to make use of them. Obo says that they show a considerable talent with sorcery."
“Obo!"
“He has served me in Cilendrodel these past two decades, my lord."
Pranter grinned. “I wonder how many other surprises you have hidden? I agree with your thinking. Alemar and Miranda were twins, after all. If the guess is wrong, what have we lost? Go, then—and plan every move with caution."
Keron left, trying to move with decorum, but inside he felt the oppression of many years dissolve away. At last the road was open to involve his life with the children so often on his thoughts, and through them, to touch again the spirit of their mother.
