Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“Is that a threat?” Tanis demanded grimly. “Threats are for the fearful. I merely state facts. Come, come, my friend! What has happened to your renowned logic, your legendary common sense? All flown out the window when the stork flew in?"3

“He’s my son. Those draconians—I was afraid—” Tanis gave up. “How could you understand? You’ve never been a parent.”

“If degenerating into a mindless idiot is what it means to be a parent, I shall certainly take care that I never achieve such a dubious distinction. Please, sit down. Let us discuss this like rational men.”

Glowering, Tanis stalked over to a comfortable armchair, placed near a welcome fire. Even on a warm spring day, the Tower of High Sorcery was dark and chill. The room in which he was imprisoned was furnished with every luxury; he’d been provided with food and drink. His few minor wounds—scratches, mostly, from the draconian’s claws and a bump on the head—had been carefully tended.

Dalamar seated himself in a chair opposite. “If you will listen with patience, I will tell you what is transpiring.”

“I’ll listen. You talk.” Tanis’s voice softened, almost broke. “My son is all right? He is well?”

“Of course. Gilthas would be of little use to his captors if he were not. You may take comfort in that fact, my friend. And I am your friend,” the dark elf added, seeing the angry flash in Tanis’s eyes. “Though I admit appearances are against me.

"As for your son,” Dalamar continued, “he is where he has longed to be—his homeland, Qualinesti. It is his homeland, Tanis, though you don’t like to hear that, do you? The boy is lodged quite comfortably, probably being afforded every courtesy. Only natural for the elves to treat him with deference, respect—since he is to be their king.”

Tanis couldn’t believe he’d heard right. He was on his feet again.

“This is some sort of bad joke. What is it you want, Dalamar? What is it you’re really after?”

The dark elf stood up. Gliding forward, he laid his hand gently on Tanis’s arm.

“No joke, my friend. Or, if it is, no one is laughing. Gilthas is in no danger now. But he could be.”

Once again, Tanis saw the vision he’d seen on Storm’s Keep—dark clouds, swirling around his son. Tanis lowered his head, to hide his burning tears. Dalamar’s grip on him tightened.

“Get hold of yourself, my friend. We don’t have much time. Every minute is critical. There is a great deal to explain. And,” Dalamar added softly, “plans to make."

“King?” Gil repeated in astonishment. He stared at Alhana in disbelief. “Speaker of the Sun and Stars! Me? No, you can’t be serious. I... I don’t want to be king!”

woman smiled, a smile that was like winter sunshine on thick ice. The smile lit her face, but did not warm her. Or him.

“I am afraid that what you want, Prince Gilthas, does not matter.”

“But you’re queen.”

“Queen!” Her voice was bitter.

“My uncle Porthios is the Speaker.” Gil went on, baffled and—though he didn’t admit it—frightened. “I... This doesn’t make sense!”

Alhana gave him a cool glance, then she turned away, walked back to the window. Parting the curtain, she stared outside, and in the light he could see her face. She had seemed cold and imperious in the shadows. In reality, in the sunlight, she was careworn, anxious, and afraid. She, too, was afraid, though he had the impression that her fear was not for herself.

I don’t want to be king, Gil heard himself whine, like a child complaining about being sent to bed. He blushed deeply.

“I’m sorry, Lady Alhana. So much has happened . . . and I don’t understand any of it. You are saying that Rashas brought me here to crown me Speaker of the Sun and Stars, to make me king of Qualinesti. I don’t see how that’s possible—”

“Don’t you?” she asked, shifting her gaze. The purple eyes were hard and dark with suspicion.

Gilthas was shocked. “My lady, I swear! I don’t know ... Please, believe me ...”

“Where are your parents?” Alhana asked abruptly. She was looking back outside now.

“Home, I suppose,” said Gil, a choking sensation in his throat. “Unless my father rode after me.”

Hope rose in Gil’s heart. Certainly his father would come after him. Tanis would find the invitation, right where Gil had left it (his declaration of his right to do as he pleased). Tanis would ride to the Black Swan and ... and discover that Gil had never been there.

“I let Rashas’s servant have my horse! He . . . he could have told my parents anything!” Gil sank despondently into a chair. “What a fool I’ve been!”

Alhana let fall the curtain. She studied the young man intently a moment. Then, coming over, she laid the fingertips of her hand on his shoulder. Her touch was chill, even through the fabric of his shirt.

“I think you had better tell me the whole story.” Alhana seated herself—erect and regal—in a chair across from him.

Gilthas did so. He was astonished, at the end of his recital, to see her face relax. She brushed her hand across her eyelashes.

“You were afraid my parents were behind this!” Gil said in sudden realization.

“Not behind it, perhaps,” Alhana said, sighing, “but that they approved. Forgive me, Prince. If your father and mother were here, I would beg their forgiveness, too.”

Reaching out her hand, she clasped his. “I’ve been alone for so long. I began to think everyone I had ever trusted had betrayed me. But we are in this together, it seems.” She squeezed his hand gently, then released it. Sinking back into her chair, she stared unseeing at the curtained window, then sighed again.

“My father and mother both know I planned to come to Qualinesti. They must know I’m here, no matter what the servant told them. They’ll come after me, my lady,” Gil said stoutly, hoping to comfort her. “They’ll rescue both of us.”

But Alhana only shook her head. “No, Rashas is far too clever to permit that to happen. He has concocted some means to keep your parents from reaching you.”

“You make it sound as if we could be in danger! From Senator Rashas? From our own people?”

She raised her gaze to meet his. “Not your own, Gilthas. You are different. That’s why they chose you.”

You are part human. The unsaid words hung in the air. Gil stared at her. He knew she had not meant it as an insult, especially not after the praise she had given Tanis. It was a habit of thought, bred into her by thousands of years of self-imposed isolation and the belief—however mistaken—that the elves are the chosen, the beloved, of the gods.

Gil knew this, yet he felt hot words rise up into his throat. He knew if he said them, it would make matters only worse. Yet...

Grace under pressure, my dear

Gil heard his mother’s voice, saw her rest her hand on Tanis’s arm. Gil remembered meetings held at their house, remembered watching his mother move with dignity and calm through the storms of political intrigue. He remembered her words to his father, reminding him to remain cool, under control. Gil remembered seeing his father turn red in the face, swallow hard.

Gil swallowed hard.

“I think you should tell me what’s going on, my lady,” he said in a low voice.

“It is really very simple,” Alhana replied. “My husband, Porthios, is being held a prisoner in Silvanesti. He was betrayed by my people. I am being held a prisoner here, betrayed by his people....”

“But why?” Gil was perplexed.

“We elves don’t like change. We fear it, mistrust it. But the world is changing very rapidly. We must change with it—or we will wither away and perish. The War of the Lance taught us that. At least I thought it did. The younger elves agree with us; the elder do not. And it is the elder—like Senator Rashas—who wield the power. I never supposed he would dare go this far, however.”