Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“What will happen to you and Uncle Porthios?”

“We will be exiled,” she said softly. “Neither kingdom will accept us.”

Gil knew enough of his people to realize that exile for an elf is far worse punishment than execution. Alhana and Porthios would be known as “dark elves”—elves who have been “cast out of the light.” They would be exiled from their homelands, prohibited any communication with their people. They would have no rights anywhere on Ansalon and, as such, would be in constant peril. Rightly or wrongly, dark elves are considered evil. They are hounded, persecuted, driven out of every city and town. They are fair targets for bounty hunters, thieves, and other scum. Not surprising that, in order to survive, most dark elves did seek refuge in the shadow of Takhisis.

Gil could think of nothing to say that would be of any help or comfort. He looked up at Alhana.

“Why me, my lady? Why now?”

“I am with child,” she said simply. “If our baby is born, he or she will be heir to the throne. As it is, should anything happen to Porthios, your mother is rightful heir. But your mother’s marriage to a half-human bastard—”

Gil sucked in his breath.

Alhana glanced at him, sympathetic, but not apologetic. “That is how most of the Qualinesti think of your father, Gilthas. It is one reason Tanis Half-Elven has never been eager to return to his homeland. Life here was not very pleasant for him when he was young. It would be worse now. What's the matter? Didn’t you ever stop to consider this?”

Gil shook his head slowly. No, he’d never considered his father’s feelings, never thought about Tanis at all.

I only thought about myself.

Alhana was continuing, “Your mother’s marriage precludes her from ruling...”

“But, I’m part human,” Gil reminded her.

“So you are,” Alhana replied coolly. “Rashas and the Thalas-Enthia do not see that as a problem. In fact, they probably view your bloodline as an asset—to them. Rashas considers all humans weak, tractable. He thinks that, because you are part human, he can lead you around by the nose.”

Gilthas flushed in anger. He lost control. Fists clenched, he bounced up out of the chair.

“By all the gods! I’ll show Rashas,” Gil proclaimed loudly. “I’ll show them all. I’ll... I’ll...”

The door opened. One of the Kagonesti guards, his spear in his hand, glared suspiciously into the room.

“Calm down, young man,” advised Alhana in a soft voice, speaking Silvanesti. “Don’t start trouble you cannot finish.”

Gil’s anger flared, sputtered, then burned out like a gutted candle. The Kagonesti eyed him, then began to laugh. He said something to his fellow guard in Kagonesti and shut the door. Gil didn’t speak the Wilder elf language, but the Kagonesti words were mixed with enough Qualinesti to bring a blush of shame to Gil’s cheek. Something about the pup trying to bark like an old dog.

“So you are saying that even if I am king, I’ll really be their prisoner. Are you suggesting I get used to that, too, my lady?” He spoke bitterly.

Alhana was silent a moment, then she shook her head. “No, Gilthas. Never get used to being their pawn. Fight them! You are the son of Tanthalas and Lauralanthalasa. You are strong—stronger than Rashas thinks. With such noble blood in your veins, how can you be otherwise?”

Even if it is mixed blood, he thought, but did not say. He was pleased at her confidence. He resolved to be worthy of it, no matter what happened.

Alhana smiled at him reassuringly, then walked again to the window. Parting the curtain, she looked outside.

It occurred to him, at this moment, that she must be doing something other than admiring the view. “What is it, my lady? Who’s out there?” “Hush! Keep your voice down.”

She dosed the curtain, then opened it, then closed it. “A friend. I have given him the signal. He saw them bring you in. I have just told him we can trust you.”

“Who? Porthios?” Gil was suddenly, buoyantly hopeful. Nothing seemed impossible.

Alhana shook her head. “One of my own people, a young guardsman named Samar. He fought with my husband against the dream in Silvanesti. When Porthios was captured, Samar remained loyal to his commander. Porthios sent Samar to warn me. He came too late; I was already Rashas’s prisoner. But now Samar has completed his arrangements. The Thalas-Enthia meets this evening to plan for tomorrow’s coronation.”

“Tomorrow!” Gil echoed the word in disbelief. “Do not be afraid, Gilthas,” Alhana said. “Paladine willing, all will be well. Tonight, while Rashas is attending the meeting, you and I will escape."

“Rashas planned this all very carefully. Of course, Tanis, you were meant to think that draconians had abducted the boy,” Dalamar told him.

“You fell into the trap quite neatly. The Wilder elf led the horse into the forest, left it as a tempting bit of bait out in front of the cave. The rest, you know.”

Tanis was barely listening. Laurana, he thought. She’ll worry when she doesn’t hear from me. She’ll realize something’s wrong. She’ll go to Qualinesti. She’ll put a stop to this

“Ah, you are wondering about your wife,” Dalamar said.

Discomfited at having his thoughts laid bare, Tanis shrugged, lied. “I was only thinking of sending her a message, telling her I was all right. So she won’t worry ...”

“Yes, of course,” said Dalamar, his half-smile indicating he wasn’t fooled. “The thoughtful husband. You’ll be pleased, then, to know that I’ve already taken care of the matter. I sent one of the servants from the Black Swan with a note for your wife saying that all was well, that you and your son needed time alone together. You should thank me...”

Tanis replied with a few words in human that were not, in any way, shape, or form, an expression of gratitude.

Dalamar’s smile darkened. “I repeat, you should thank me. I may have saved Laurana’s life. If she had gone to Qualinost and tried to interfere ..."

He paused, then shrugged his slender shoulders.

Tanis had been pacing the room. He stopped in front of Dalamar.

“You’re implying she might be in peril? From Rashas and the Thalas-Enthia? I don’t believe you. By the gods, these are elves we’re talking about—”

“I am an elf, Tanis,” Dalamar said quietly. “And I am the most dangerous man you know.”

Tanis started to say something, but his tongue froze to the roof of his mouth. His throat constricted, shutting off his breathing. He swallowed, then managed to whisper huskily, “What are you saying? And how do I know I can trust you?”

Dalamar did not immediately answer. He spoke a word, and a wine decanter appeared in his hand. Rising, he walked over to a table on which stood a silver tray and two thin-stemmed crystal glasses. “Will you have some? The wine is elven, very fine, very old, part of the stock of my late shalafi.”

Tanis was on the verge of refusing. It is generally a wise idea never to eat or drink anything while incarcerated in a Tower of High Sorcery with a dark elf wizard.

But Tanis’s “renowned logic” reminded him that he would get nowhere behaving like a thick-headed lout. If Dalamar wanted to dispose of him, the mage would have done so by now. And, then, too, Dalamar had made a subtle inference to Raistlin, his shalafi. Once, Raistlin and Tanis had fought on the same side. Once, Dalamar and Tanis had fought on the same side as well. The dark elf had said something earlier about making plans. Silently, Tanis accepted the glass.

“To old alliances,” Dalamar said, echoing Tanis’s thoughts. He tilted the wine to his lips and took a sip.