Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

Gil continued pacing in the darkness, attempting to sort through the confused jumble of his thoughts.

Home! How he had longed to leave it. Now, perversely, he longed to be back.

“Father came after me. I know he did. And maybe I’ve put him in danger.” Gil sighed. “I’ve made a mess of things. Whatever happens to Father will be my fault. He warned me not to go. Why didn’t I listen? What’s wrong with me? Why do I have these horrible feelings inside me? I—”

He stopped. Voices, loud voices, speaking Qualinesti, came floating up from far below. Alarmed, thinking perhaps that Alhana’s plot had been discovered, Gil wondered if he should wake her.

She was already awake, sitting up, her eyes open wide. She listened several moments, then sighed in relief.

“It is only a few members of the Thalas-Enthia—Rashas’s cohorts. They’re planning on entering the senate chambers together, to present a solid front.”

“Then all the senators aren’t behind Rashas?” “The younger members are opposed to him, though there are too few of them to matter. But many of the elder are wavering. If Porthios were here, there would be no contest, and Rashas knows it.”

“What will happen tomorrow when you’re gone and I’m not: here to be crowned?”

Alhana was scornful. “The people will wake to discover that they have no ruler. Rashas will be forced to send for Porthios. The Thalas-Enthia will be chastened and we can get on with our lives—such as they are.”

Gil had heard his parents talk about the marriage of Alhana and Porthios. It wasn’t a happy one. Husband and wife rarely saw each other. Porthios was fighting Lorac’s dream in Silvanesti. Alhana spent her time shuttling between the two kingdoms, trying desperately to hold them together. But she spoke of her husband with respect and pride, if not affection.

Gil gazed at her with adoring eyes. I could live off her beauty alone. If she were mine, I wouldn’t need anything else. I could do without water, food. How could any man not love her? Porthios must be a great fool.

A brief burst of cheering erupted from down below. The sound of voices began to diminish.

“They’re leaving,” said Alhana. “Now the guards will relax.”

The house was silent. Then, once certain Rashas was gone, the Kagonesti guards outside their door began to talk and laugh. Spears clattered to the floor. More laughter, and strange clicking sounds. Puzzled, Gil looked at Alhana.

“Those are sticks you hear, being tossed onto the floor. The Kagonesti are playing a game of their people. They do this whenever Rashas leaves, but don’t imagine they are letting down their guard,” she warned. “They would trade their betting sticks for spears the moment you tried to open that door.”

“Then how are we going to escape?”

It was a long drop to the garden below; Gil had already looked.

“Samar has everything planned,” Alhana said, and would say no more.

Time passed. Gil was edgy, nervous.

“How long will the meeting of the Thalas-Enthia last?”

“Far into the night,” said Alhana quietly. “After all, they are plotting sedition.”

The Wilder elves' game was becoming increasingly entertaining, judging by the bursts of laughter and the occasional excited, friendly argument. Gil walked over to the door and put his ear to it to hear better. He would like to join in such a game sometime, and wondered how it was played. Sticks clattered; then there would be moments of breath-held silence, followed by a gasp of relief or howls of dismay. At the end, cries of success came from the winners, good-natured swearing from the losers.

Then, suddenly, there was the sound of a strange voice. “Good evening, gentlemen. Who is winning?”

Alhana—deathly pale—rose to her feet. “It is Samar,” she whispered. “Get away from the door! Quickly!”

Gil jumped back. He heard shouts, confused scrambling outside the door-men reaching for their spears. Swift, strange words, spoken in a language that he didn’t understand, halted those sounds, changed them to muffled groans, followed by several thuds, as of heavy bodies tumbling to the floor. And then no more sounds for the space of ten heartbeats—rapid, frightened heartbeats.

The door opened. A young elven warrior strode into the room.

“Samar! My trusted friend.” Alhana smiled at him. Gracious and calm as if she were in her own audience chamber, she extended her hand.

“My queen!” Samar fell to one knee before her. His head bowed in homage.

Gil peered curiously out the door. The Wilder elves were stretched out, comatose, on the floor. Some had their spears still clutched in their hands. What appeared to be a rolled-up piece of parchment was ablaze in the center of the room. As Gil watched, the parchment vanished, consumed by the fire. Thin tendrils of green smoke drifted on the still air.

Gil was about to step out to take a closer look. “Take care, young man,” Samar warned. Rising swiftly to his feet, he pulled Gil back. “Don’t go anywhere near that smoke, or you’ll be slumbering as peacefully as they.”

“Prince Gilthas, son of Laurana Solostaran and Tanis Half-Elven,” Alhana performed the introductions. “This is Samar of House Protector.”

Samar’s gaze—cool and appraising—raked over Gil, who felt suddenly weak and frail in the presence of this seasoned warrior. Samar gave the

young man a cold nod, then turned immediately back to his queen.

“All is prepared, Your Majesty. The griffins are waiting to meet us in the wilderness. They were furious when they heard that Rashas had taken you prisoner.” Samar smiled grimly. “I don’t believe he will be riding by griffin back anymore. If you are ready, we should leave at once. Where are your possessions? I will carry them for you.”

“I travel lightly, my friend,” Alhana said. She spread her hands, showed them empty. “But your jewels, my queen—”

“I have what is important to me.” She placed her hand over a ring she wore upon her finger. “My husband’s token of faith and trust. All else means nothing.”

Samar frowned. “They took your jewels from you, didn’t they, my queen? How dare they?”

Alhana’s voice was gentle, but stern. “The jewels belong to the Qualinesti people. The matter is trivial, Samar. You are right. We should leave at once.”

The warrior bowed in silent acquiescence. “The downstairs guards, too, are silenced. We will go that way. Cover your nose and mouth, my queen. You, too, Prince,” he ordered Gil curtly. “Don’t inhale the magical smoke.”

Alhana pressed an embroidered silken handkerchief over her face. Gil held the hem of his cloak over his mouth. Samar led the way, his hand on the hilt of his sword. They stepped over the slumbering bodies of the Wilder elves and detoured cautiously around the smoldering ashes of the spell scroll.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Samar brought them to a halt.

“Stay here,” he whispered.

Descending the steps, he looked around, then—satisfied that all was safe—he motioned for Alhana and Gil to follow.

Halfway down the last flight of stairs, Samar suddenly grabbed hold of Alhana, dragged her into the shadows. A fierce look from the warrior and an urgent “Get back!” warned Gil to do the same.

Not daring to breathe, he flattened himself against the wall.

A Wilder elf, this one a female, emerged from a doorway directly below them. She was carrying a silver bowl filled with fruit. Humming a song to herself, she crossed the entry-way, heading for a courtyard, bright with the tiny, sparkling lights. Another Kagonesti servant met the woman at the door. They conferred a few moments. Gil caught the Qualinesti word for “ party.” The two disappeared into the courtyard.