Drawing a curved-bladed dagger, Groul leaped into the air, using his wings to lift him well above Gerard. Slashing with his dagger, Groul launched himself bodily at the Knight.
The draconian’s weight and the force of his blow drove Gerard to the ground. He fell heavily, landing on his back, with Groul on top, slavering and snarling and trying to stab Gerard with the dagger. The draconian’s wings beat frantically, flapping in Gerard’s face, stirring up dust that stung Gerard’s eyes. He fought in panicked desperation, striking at Groul with his knife while trying to seize hold of the draconian’s dagger.
The two rolled in the dust. Gerard felt his dagger hit home more than once. He was covered with blood, but whether the blood was his or Groul’s, he could not tell. Still, Groul would not die, and Gerard’s strength was giving out. Fear-pumped adrenaline was all that was keeping him going, and that was starting to recede.
Suddenly Groul choked, gagged. Blood spewed from the draconian, splashed over Gerard’s face, blinding him. Groul stiffened, snarled in fury. He raised himself up off Gerard, lifted his dagger. The blade fell from the draconian’s hand. Groul fell back onto Gerard, but this time, the draconian did not move. He was dead.
Gerard paused to draw a shuddering breath of relief, a pause that was his undoing. Too late, he remembered Medan’s warning. A dead draconian is just as dangerous as a draconian living. Before Gerard could heave the carcass off him, the body of the Baaz draconian had changed into solid stone. Gerard felt as if he had the weight of a tomb on top of him. The stone carcass pressed him into the ground. He could not breathe. He was slowly suffocating. He fought to heave it off him, but it was too heavy. He drew in a ragged breath, planning to exert every last ounce of energy.
The stone statue crumbled to dust.
Gerard staggered to his feet, sank back against a tree. He wiped Groul’s blood from his eyes, spit and retched until he had cleared it out of his mouth. He rested a few moments, waiting for his heart to quit trying to beat its way out from beneath his armor, waited until the battle rage had cleared from his eyes. When he could see, he fumbled at the draconian’s harness, found the scroll case, and retrieved it.
Gerard took one last look at the heap of dust that had been Groul. Then, still spitting, still trying to rid himself of the foul taste in his mouth, the Knight turned and wearily made his way back through the darkness, back toward the flickering lights of Qualinost. Lights that were just starting to pale with the coming of dawn.
Sunshine streamed in through the crystal windows of the Palace of the Speaker of the Sun. Gilthas sat bathed in the sunlight, absorbed in his work. He was writing another poem, this one about his father’s adventures during the War of the Lance, a poem that also contained encoded messages for two families of elves who had come under suspicion of being rebel sympathizers.
He had nearly completed it and was planning to send Planchet out to deliver the poem to those who took an interest in the king’s literary pursuits, when Gilthas suddenly visibly shuddered. His fingers holding the quill pen shook. He left a blot upon his manuscript and laid down the pen hurriedly. Cold sweat beaded his brow.
“Your Majesty!” Planchet asked, alarmed. “What is wrong? Are you unwell?” He left his task of sorting the king’s papers and hastened to his side.
“Your Majesty?” he repeated anxiously.
“I just had the strangest feeling,” Gilthas said in a low voice. “As though a goose had walked on my grave.”
“A goose, Your Majesty!” Planchet was baffled.
“It is a human saying, my friend.” Gilthas smiled. “Did you never hear it? My father used to use it. The saying describes that feeling you get when for no reason that you can explain a chill causes your flesh to raise and your hair to prickle. That’s exactly how I felt a moment ago. What is even stranger is that for an instant I had a very strong impression of my cousin’s face! Silvanoshei. I could see him quite clearly, as clearly as I see you.”
“Silvanoshei is dead, Your Majesty,” Planchet reminded him. “Slain by ogres. Perhaps the goose was walking on his grave.”
“I wonder,” said Gilthas, thoughtfully. “My cousin did not look dead, I assure you. He wore silver armor, the kind worn by Silvanesti warriors. I saw smoke and blood, battle raged around him, but he was not touched by it. He stood at the edge of a precipice. I reached out my hand, but whether it was to pull him back or push him over, I don’t know.”
“I trust you were going to pull him back, Your Majesty,” said Planchet, looking slightly shocked.
“I trust so, too.” Gilthas frowned, shook his head. “I remember being quite angry and afraid. Strange.” He shrugged. “Whatever it was, the feeling’s gone now.”
“Your Majesty must have dozed off. You have not been getting much sleep—”
Planchet suddenly ceased speaking. Making a sign to Gilthas to keep silent, his servant crept across the room and put his ear to the door.
“Someone is coming, Your Majesty,” Planchet reported, speaking Common.
“At this hour in the morning? I am expecting no one. I hope it’s not Palthainon,” said Gilthas. “I have to finish this poem. Tell him I am not to be disturbed.”
“Let me pass!” An elven voice outside the door spoke to the guards. The voice was calm but held an underlying note of tension and strain. “I have a message to the king from his mother.”
One of the guards knocked loudly. Planchet cast a warning glance at Gilthas, who subsided back into his chair and resumed his writing.
“Hide those clothes!” he whispered urgently, with a gesture.
Gilthas’s traveling clothes lay neatly folded on top of a chest, in preparation for another nightly journey. Planchet whisked the clothes back into the chest, which he closed and locked. He dropped the key into the bottom of a large vase of fresh-cut roses. This done, he walked over to answer the knock.
Gilthas played with his pen and took up a pensive attitude. Lounging back in his chair, he propped his feet up on a cushion, ran the tip of the feather over his lips, and stared at the ceiling.
“The Runner Kelevandros,” announced the guard, “to see His Majesty.”
“Let him enter,” said Gilthas languidly.
Kelevandros came into the room in a bound. He was hooded and cloaked, the hood covering his face. Planchet shut the door behind him. Kelevandros threw back his hood. His face was deathly pale.
Gilthas rose involuntarily to his feet.
“What—”
“Your Majesty must not excite himself,” Planchet remonstrated with a glance at the door, reminding the king that the guards could hear him.
“What has happened, Kelevandros?” Gilthas asked indolently. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”
“Your Majesty!” Kelevandros said in a low, quivering voice. “The queen mother has been arrested!”
“Arrested?” Gilthas repeated in astonishment. “Who has done this? Who would dare? And why? What is the charge?”
“Marshal Medan. Your Majesty.” Kelevandros gulped. “I don’t know how to say this—”
“Out with it, man!” Gilthas said sharply.
“Last night, Marshal Medan placed your honored mother under arrest. He has orders from the dragon Beryl to put … to put the queen mother to death.”
Gilthas stared wordlessly. The blood drained from his face, as if someone had taken a knife and drawn it across his throat. He was so pale and shaken that Planchet left the door and hastened to the king’s side, placed a firm and comforting hand on Gilthas’s shoulder.
“I attempted to stop him, Your Majesty,” Kelevandros said miserably. “I failed.”
“Last night!” Gilthas cried, anguished. “Why didn’t you come to me at once?”
“I tried, Your Majesty,” Kelevandros said, “but the guards would not let me inside without orders from Palthainon.”
“Where has Medan taken the queen mother?” Planchet asked. “What is the charge against her?”
“The charge is har
boring the sorcerer Palin and helping him escape with the magical device brought by the kender. I don’t know where Medan has taken my mistress. I went first to the Knight’s headquarters, but if she is being held there, no one would tell me. I have had people searching for her all night. They are to report back to Kalindas, who has offered to remain in the house in case there is news. Finally, one of the guards who is a friend of our cause admitted me.
“I came next to you. You have heard nothing then?” Kelevandros looked anxiously at the king.
“No,” said Gilthas. The word made no sound as it left his pallid lips.
“We are about to learn something more, I believe,” said Planchet, his ear cocked. “That is Medan’s heavy tread on the staircase. His footsteps shake the house. He comes quickly.”
They could hear the stamp of the guards’ feet as they came to attention, hear the thud of their spears strike the floor. One of the guards started to knock, but the knock was never finished. Medan, accompanied by one of his bodyguards—helmed and wearing black leather armor—thrust the door open, strode into the room.
“Your Majesty—”
Gilthas lunged from his chair. He covered the distance between himself and the marshal in two great bounds. Catching hold of the startled Medan by the throat, Gilthas slammed the human back against the wall, while Planchet accosted the bodyguard. Seizing hold of the man’s arm, Planchet twisted it behind his back, held a knife to his ear.
“What have you done with my mother?” Gilthas demanded, his voice hard and grim. “Tell me!” He tightened his grip on Medan’s throat. “Tell me!”
The marshal had been caught flat-footed by the king’s sudden assault. Medan did not move. The young king’s fingers were exceptionally strong, and he appeared to know precisely what he was doing.
The marshal was by no means afraid. He had his hand on the handle of his dirk and could at any moment draw the weapon and plunge it into the king’s belly. That was not, however, what Medan had come here to accomplish.
He stared at Gilthas long moments without speaking, then said, as best he could for being choked, “Either the pup has grown into a wolf, or I am in the presence of a consummate actor.” Noting the fearless determination in the young elf’s eyes, the resolution in the jaw, the firmness of the fingers and the expertness of the hold, Medan had his answer.
“I tend to think the latter,” he gasped.
“My mother, sir!” Gilthas said through clenched teeth. “Where is she?”
“I am here, Gilthas,” Laurana replied, her voice echoing inside the helm of the Neraka Knights.
“Queen Mother!” Planchet gasped. He dropped the knife he had been holding and fell to his knees. “Forgive me! I had no idea …”
“You weren’t supposed to, Planchet,” Laurana said, removing the helm. “Let the marshal go, Gilthas. I am safe. For the moment. As safe as any of us.”
Gilthas let loose of Medan, who stepped away from the wall, massaging his bruised throat.
“Mother, are you hurt?” Gilthas demanded. “Did he harm you? If he did, I swear—”
“No, my son, no!” Laurana reassured him. “The marshal has treated me with all possible respect. With great kindness, even. He took me to his house last night. This morning, he provided me with this disguise. The marshal fears my life may be in peril. He took me into custody for my own safety.”
Gilthas frowned as if he found all this difficult to believe. “Mother, sit down. You look exhausted. Planchet, bring my mother some wine.”
While Planchet went to fetch the wine, the marshal walked over to the door. Flinging it open, he stepped out into the hallway. The guards scrambled to attention.
“Guards, the rebel force has been reported within the city limits. His Majesty’s life is in danger. Clear the household. Send all the servants home. Everyone. No one is to remain within the palace. Is that understood? I want guards posted at all the entrances. Admit no one, with the exception of my aide. Send him to king’s chambers directly upon his arrival. Go!”
The guards departed, and soon their voices could be heard loudly ordering everyone to leave the palace. The voices of the servants rose in perplexity or consternation. It was early morning, breakfast was prepared but had not been served, the floors had yet to be swept. The guards were firm. There was a hubbub of voices, the household staff exclaiming loudly and fearfully, the scream of an overexcited maid. The guards herded everyone out the doors and took up their positions outside as ordered.
Within a few moments, the palace was strangely, unnaturally quiet.
Medan reentered the room. “Where do you think you are going?” he demanded, finding Kelevandros about to depart.
“I must take this news to my brother, my lord,” Kelevandros said. “He is frantic with worry—”
“You are not taking this news to him or to anyone. Go sit down and keep quiet.”
Laurana glanced up swiftly at this, looked searchingly at Kelevandros. The elf glanced at her uncertainly and then did as he was told.
Medan left the door open behind him. “I want to be able to hear what is going on outside. Are you all right, madam?”
“Yes, thank you, Marshal. Will you join me in a glass of wine?”
“With His Majesty’s permission.” The marshal made a slight bow.
“Planchet,” Gilthas said, “pour the marshal some wine.” The king continued to stand protectively beside his mother, continued to glower at the marshal.
Medan raised his glass in a toast. “I congratulate you, Your Majesty. I have been duped for the first and only time in my life. That weak, vacillating, poetry-loving act of yours took me in completely. I have long wondered how and why so many of my best plans were thwarted. I believe that I now have the answer. Your health, Your Majesty.”
Medan drank the wine. Gilthas turned his back on the man.
“Mother, what is going on?”
“Sit down, Gilthas, and I will tell you,” Laurana said. “Or better yet, you may read for yourself.”
She looked to Medan. He reached inside his armor, produced the scroll sent by the dragon, and handed it, with a new and marked show of respect, to the king.
Gilthas walked to the window, unrolled the parchment. He held it to the waning twilight and read it slowly and carefully.
“The dragon cannot mean this,” he said, his voice strained.
“She means it,” said Medan grimly. “Erase all doubt from your mind, Your Majesty. Beryl has long been seeking an excuse to destroy Qualinesti. The rebel attacks grow bolder. She suspects the elves of keeping the Tower of Wayreth from her. The unfortunate fact that Palin Majere was discovered hiding in the house of the queen mother merely confirms the dragon’s suspicions that the elves and the sorcerers are in collusion to rob her of her magic.”
“We pay her tribute—” Gilthas began.
“Bah! What is money to her? She demands tribute only because it pleases her to think she is inflicting a hardship on you. Magic is what she lusts after, magic of the old world, magic of the gods. It is a pity this blasted device ever came into his land. A pity you sought to keep it from me, madam.” The marshal’s voice was stern. “Had you turned it over to me, this tragedy might have been averted.”
Laurana sipped her wine, made no answer.
Medan shrugged. “But, you didn’t. Spilled ale, as they said. Now you must fetch the device back. You must, madam,” he reiterated. “I have done what I can to stall for time, but I have bought us only a few days. Send your griffon messenger to the Citadel. Instruct Palin Majere to turn over the device and the kender who bears it. I will take them to the dragon personally. I may be able to stave off this doom that hangs over us—”
“Us!” Gilthas cried in anger. “You hold the executioner’s axe, Marshal! The axe hangs poised over our heads, not yours!”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Medan replied with a low bow. “I have lived in this land for so long that it has come to seem like my home.”
“You are our
conqueror,” said Gilthas, speaking the words distinctly, separately them with bitter emphasis on each. “You are our master. You are our jailer. Qualinesti can never be your home, sir.”
“I suppose not, Your Majesty,” said Medan, after a moment’s pause. “I should like you to consider, however, that I escorted your mother to the palace, when I might have escorted her to the block. I have come to warn you of the dragon’s intent, when I might have been marching prisoners to the market place to serve as targets for my archers.”
“What is all this generosity to cost us?” Gilthas demanded, his voice cold. “What is the price you set on our lives, Marshal Medan?”
Medan smiled slightly. “I should like to die in my garden, Your Majesty. Of old age, if that is possible.” He poured himself another glass of wine.
“Do not trust him, Your Majesty,” Planchet said softly, coming to pour wine for the king.
“Don’t worry,” said Gilthas, twisting the fragile stem of the glass in his fingers.
“And now, madam, we do not have much time,” the Marshal said. “Here is paper and ink. Compose your letter to Majere.”
“No, Marshal,” Laurana said firmly. “I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought. Beryl must never come into possession of this device. I would die a hundred deaths first.”
“You would die a hundred deaths, madam,” said Medan grimly, “but what about thousands of deaths? What about your people? Will you sacrifice them to save some sorcerer’s toy?”
Laurana was pale, resolute. “It is not a toy, Marshal Medan. If Palin is right, it is one of the most powerful magical artifacts ever made. Qualinesti could be burned to the ground before I would turn over the artifact to Beryl.”
“Tell me the nature of this artifact, then,” Medan said.
“I cannot, Marshal,” Laurana replied. “It is bad enough that Beryl knows the artifact exists. I will not provide her with any more information.” Calmly, she lifted her blue eyes to meet his irate gaze. “You see, sir, I have reason to believe that I am being spied upon.”
Medan’s face flushed. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind and turned abruptly to speak to the king.
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