Paul Thompson - The Qualinesti

However, hard as he tried to ignore it, the hollow sound of Dru’s voice filled his ears: Murderer. You killed me.

Green robe flying, Silveran spun around, looking for the terrible face he knew would be hovering nearby. Rufus threw himself flat on the ground as the quarrel tip on the cocked crossbow spun by. He shouted, “Hey! Watch where you point that thing!”

The only sound the Speaker’s son heard was the ghastly sighing of a long-dead elf. He swept around in a circle until he spied the horrible head suspended in space, just above his own eye level. The face of the evil sorcerer was even more decayed now than when he last saw it. The nose was sunken in, the eyes black sockets. The smell of death and putrefaction forced itself into Silveran’s nostrils. He choked and aimed the crossbow at the dead elf’s image.

“Silveran, don’t shoot,” Verhanna said evenly. The quarrel was pointing right at her forehead, only a half dozen feet away. A line of sweat appeared on her upper lip.

“Don’t shoot the captain!” Rufus, still flat on the sod, added his plea to hers.

“Go away,” Silveran quavered. “Leave me alone!”

“I’m not Drulethen,” Verhanna said carefully. Keeping her hands spread apart in front of her, she took a step forward. She continued to speak in calm, soothing tones. “Turn the bow away, Silveran. It’s me, Verhanna. Your sister.”

In Silveran’s fear-crazed mind, the words were different: Time is short, murderer. When the last flesh rots from my bones, I will come to avenge my death on you. Time is short! Look into the face of your death!

Maggots sprouted from the dead elf’s skin. Drulethen’s lower jaw fell away and vanished, leaving a horrid, gaping skull leering at him. Silveran shut his eyes and cried out for mercy. His hand tightened on the trigger bar.

Verhanna threw herself forward and knocked the bow aside. The square-headed quarrel leapt from the bowstring and hissed through the air, burying itself in a high tree branch. Silveran screamed and fought Verhanna, but she managed to pin him to the ground.

“No, no!” he ranted. “I’m sorry I killed you! Don’t hurt me, Dru! I don’t want to die!” Tears coursed down his cheeks.

Guards, servants, and Tamanier Ambrodel came running into the garden, alarmed by the cries. The guards restrained Silveran after Verhanna lifted him to his feet. The prince sobbed something about forgiveness and his own innocence.

“Did you leave him alone?” asked Tamanier quickly. “Did he see the ghost again?”

“We never left his side,” Rufus protested. “My captain and I were teaching Greenhands how to shoot a crossbow.”

Tamanier looked quickly to Verhanna. “Did you see anything untoward, Your Highness?”

She dusted dirt from her knees and shook her head. “I didn’t see or hear anything but Silveran.”

“He almost shot my captain,” blurted the kender.

“Shut up, Wart.”

Tamanier looked grave. “The Speaker must be told.” He folded his wrinkled hands and pressed them hard against his lips. “Forgive me, Highness.”

Verhanna bristled. “What do you mean?”

“His Highness could be ill in his mind.”

Her eyes blazed. “You go too far, Castellan Ambrodel! If my brother says he’s seeing a ghost, then by Astra, there’s a ghost!”

“I meant no offense, Your Highness—”

“Well, you’ve offended me!”

The guards supported Silveran as they walked him back to the Speaker’s house. Tamanier bowed and, white-faced, followed them inside.

Rufus picked up the crossbow and brushed the dirt from the bowstring. “You know, my captain, the old geezer could be right.”

She shook a finger under the kender’s nose. “Don’t you start, too, you noisy beetle!”

The kender turned and stomped away toward the house. Shaking with fury, Verhanna watched him for a second, then snatched up a forgotten quarrel and broke it over her knee. She flung the pieces aside and stalked off into the garden. Soon the warrior maiden was lost from sight as she crashed through the bushes and descended the gentle slope into the deepest recesses of the peaceful garden.

From a window in the Speaker’s house overlooking the upper garden, Ulvian watched the entire scene. He smiled. He was glad his rooms had such an excellent view.

Healers were summoned to the Speaker’s house; priestesses of Quen came and worked their incantations over Silveran—all with no success. Clerics devoted to the worship of Mantis and Astra wove protective spells around Kith-Kanan’s beleaguered son, but still the hideous corpse face of Drulethen tormented him, and him alone.

The Speaker met with the priests and healers. “Is my son bewitched?” he asked solemnly.

The high priestess of Quen, a former Silvanesti named Aytara, answered for all of them. “We have cast healing spells on your son, Great Speaker, and they do not affect him. The good brothers of Mantis have erected barriers to keep out elementals and evil spirits, and still he sees the dread specter.”

Her wide, pale blue eyes never faltered as she gazed at Kith-Kanan. “Prince Silveran is not afflicted by mortal magic, Great Speaker,” the young priestess finished.

“What, then?” he demanded.

Aytara glanced at her silent colleagues. “There are two possibilities, Majesty. Both are distasteful.”

“Speak the truth, lady. I want to hear it.”

“There are potions, poisons, that can corrode the mind. Your son may have been given such a potion,” she said.

Kith-Kanan shook his head. “Silveran and I eat the same foods. No one knows who will eat or drink from any given plate or cup. And I have experienced no such visions. It cannot be poison.”

“Very well. The last possibility is that your son has lost his mind.”

Terrible, icy silence followed the pronouncement. Kith-Kanan gripped the arms of his vallenwood throne so hard his knuckles turned as white as the wood. “Do you know what you’re saying? Are you telling me that my son—my heir—is mad?”

The priestess said nothing. A thought occurred to the Speaker. “My son has demonstrated magical ability in the past,” he ventured. “Can this power not be used to help him?”

“He does indeed have great power, but he is completely untrained. Without much study and practice, he can’t use these powers to help himself.” Aytara’s face was sad.

Kith-Kanan looked to each of the others in turn. All of them hung their heads and remained silent, having nothing further to offer.

“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.”