Paul Thompson - The Qualinesti

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.

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.