Paul Thompson - The Qualinesti

Verhanna sat down on the steps. There were a few people moving across the square, and she watched them go about their daily affairs. To her left, the great spire of the Tower of the Sun glinted brightly. The dark stripe that was the tower’s shadow crept across the square away from the Speaker’s house. In a few hours, at sunset, it would blanket the entrance of the Thalas-Enthia, She wondered how long her father and Silveran would have to argue and maneuver with the crafty senators there. It could be hours or days…perhaps even weeks.

Yes, sometimes the simple life of the wilderness seemed very appealing.

When the meeting broke up, the news radiated outward from the senate hall in ever-widening circles, so that by a few hours after sunset, the entire city knew that the senate had accepted Kith-Kanan’s testimony that Silveran was his true son. The last bit of convincing evidence presented to the senate had been the testimony of the scribe Polidanus, reading from the copied archives of Silvanos the tale of the elf noble Thonmera. Thonmera was one of the original members of the legendary Synthal-Elish, the council that had been the foundation of the first elven nation several millennia ago. It was written that he had been born sixty years after his mother’s official death. Apparently the sorcerer Procax had cast a spell on Thonmera’s mother because she had refused the magician’s offers of love. Procax turned the elf woman into stone. Sixty years later, when Thonmera’s father had the stone image of his dead wife moved to his newly built home, the laborers dropped it. The stone image shattered, and the living infant form of Thonmera was discovered.

The Loyalists were completely defeated. Indeed, the tale of Thonmera undercut their entire position. Senator Clovanos and his cronies had made a great show of proclaiming themselves loyal to the traditions of the elven race. What could be more traditional, Irthenie demanded, than the birth of a member of the great Synthal-Elish?

Throughout the debate, Kith-Kanan sat quietly, not indulging in the raucous verbal maneuvers. The Speaker left it to Irthenie and his other friends to put forth his case. He answered occasional questions put to him, but by and large he remained in the background.

In the end, by a vast majority, the Thalas-Enthia gave its approval to Silveran as the Speaker’s son. Kith-Kanan did not press right away for the issue of succession, though everyone in the hall had no doubt that was his ultimate goal.

The dying rays of sunlight streamed in the high window slots in the chamber as the session ended. Senators stretched and yawned, rising from their hard marble seats to go to their homes. The Loyalists filed out silently, utterly dejected. Many of the New Landers came forward to offer their congratulations to Kith-Kanan for finding his long-lost son. He remained to speak to all of them, thanking each one personally for his or her vote of confidence.

Finally only Irthenie was left. Her hands shook and her legs were weak from the long, hard afternoon’s work. Kith-Kanan put an arm around her tiny waist and supported her with his strength.

“You’re about to collapse,” he said, concerned. “Shall I send for a litter to carry you home?”

“I can carry myself home,” she snapped, jerking away from his encircling arm. The Speaker of the Sun retreated from the old elf woman’s ire. “I may be tired, but I’m not senile yet!”

“That you are not,” agreed Kith-Kanan. He watched Irthenie’s painful progress up the chamber steps to ground level, then out the open doors. A warm wind blew into the hall, flapping the Speaker’s robe and stirring Silveran’s loose, long hair.

“You’ve been very quiet,” said Kith-Kanan to his son.

“In truth, Father, I haven’t understood one word in ten.” He pressed his hands to his temples. “Never have I heard so many words spoken at one time! It makes my head reel to remember it!”

His father smiled. “The good senators do like to talk. But the wellborn and the important should talk to each other and argue their points of view. It’s far better than settling their disputes with blades, as was the case in Silvanost in my father’s day.”

“Talking is better than fighting,” repeated Silveran, impressing the concept on his mind.

“And right now food is better than both,” Kith-Kanan sighed, putting an arm across his son’s shoulders. “A plump chicken, a loaf of fresh bread, and some fine Qualinesti nectar should do nicely.”

“I’m hungry, too.”

Father and son mounted the shallow steps and passed out of the hall. The rose quartz outer walls of the tower burned in the setting sun, and the full weight of summer leaves tossed back and forth on the trees as the wind stirred through them.

“I will teach you all I know,” Kith-Kanan promised. He held his head up, letting the sun wash over his face. His regal robe, rumpled by the long afternoon of sitting, flashed white satin highlights as he walked. “You will be a great Speaker of the Sun.”

Silveran was quiet for several minutes as they crossed the square toward the Speaker’s house. They were unescorted by warriors and unburdened by pomp. The green-fingered elf lifted his own face to the warmth of the sun and shook his hair out of his eyes.

“Father,” he said, at last, “I believe this is what my mother wanted.”

“I believe so, too,” Kith-Kanan murmured. “I believe you were sent so that the nation of Qualinesti would not die. You are its future.”

As the Speaker and his son moved through the people who were finishing the day’s chores, they were greeted by bows and smiles and happy voices.

“Long live the Speaker,” said a human woman whose arms were laden with freshly cut flowers.

“Long live Prince Silveran!” added two nearby elves.

It was a fine day, a fine evening. At the door of the Speaker’s house, Kith-Kanan saw Tamanier Ambrodel waiting for him. He sent Silveran on ahead into the house. When his son was gone, Kith-Kanan asked his castellan why he was so happy.

“How do you know I’m happy, sire?” asked the surprised Tamanier.

“Your face is an open scroll,” the speaker replied. “I can read your every emotion. Now, what is it?”

“The centaurs have received their reward and left the house,” Tamanier reported.

Kith-Kanan sighed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to bid them farewell. They were staunch friends when we needed them. Such allies must be treasured.” He passed a hand before his eyes. “My head aches, Tam. Have the apothecary send up a soothing draft with dinner.”

Tamanier bowed. He watched the Speaker ascend the stairs to his private rooms to join young Silveran for their meal. How old he seems this evening, the castellan thought. The expedition against Drulethen had taken a great deal out of Kith-Kanan. But with a new son and plenty of rest, he would recover quickly.

In a small room adjoining the Speaker’s bedchamber, Silveran lay sleeping on a simple pallet of blankets spread on the hard tile floor. He was too used to sleeping on the ground to be comfortable on the soft bed. Every night of the week he had been in Qualinost, he’d dragged his bedding onto the floor and spent the night there.

As often happens to those with untroubled minds, he fell asleep quickly and passed the night in harmless dreams of his forest birthplace. The heady changes in his short life had barely impressed themselves on his inner mind, and Silveran did not yet dream of glory or power or the adoration of the people.

The only troubling aspects of his dreams so far were the images of his half-siblings, Verhanna and Ulvian. They did not menace him, but he felt vaguely troubled whenever they appeared. Even the innocent Silveran could sense Ulvian’s hostility, and he did not know what to make of Verhanna’s strange behavior at all. Sometimes she got angry at him for no reason at all.