Mark Anthony - Kindred Spirits

Movement below caught his eye, and he leaned over the bannister. The drums roared and the trumpets sang; it was the time in the ceremony when Gilthanas, garbed in his traditional gray robe, should have stepped through the entry hall of the Tower of the Sun, circled around to a small door at the back of the Tower, and gone through the door to find Porthios waiting for him at the end of the Yathen-ilara, the Pathway to Illumination.

Ah, how tired Miral was of infernal elven tradition. They kept the most trivial traditions, while the important one, the one that made Qualinesti uniquely pure, they threatened to let go. He would… Miral shook away the thought and sought to return his focus to the Yathen-ilara.

Today’s celebration would stop there, for Gilthanas was dead.

It would be his, Miral’s, joke on the nobles, on Porthios, on Solostaran especially. One last jest before they died. The mage imagined them all standing there waiting in their gold-threaded finery, secure in their wealth, in their status, in their belief that somehow they deserved all this. They would wonder where Gilthanas was. Eventually, they would grow restless, begin to murmur, look around.

Had things gone as normal, Gilthanas would have waited by the small door. Thus would have begun the Kentommen proper, where Solostaran would address the onlookers in an ancient prescribed speech, explaining that he had lost a child in the Grove and that he now had no heir. The three Ulathi would have stepped forward, still masked, to proclaim their lines. The gong would have sent Gilthanas into the corridor, from which he would have sent Porthios forth into adulthood. Porthios would have received from the Speaker a goblet of deep red wine, symbolizing Solostaran’s bloodline-and his formal selection as heir. And Porthios, from that moment, would forever be considered adult.

Miral laughed. Instead of all the folderol that the elves liked so well, Miral would stand forward, call Porthios forth from the sacred corridor to join the others, then utter the words that would seal all the doorways. The ceremony would be over.

As would their lives. And when the dying ceased, he would be Speaker.

The drums boomed again. Miral leaned forward to chant. Then he stopped, speechless.

Gilthanas had entered the Tower.

Miral stood stock-still as the qray-robed figure entered the Tower. The murmuring that had begun among the onlookers quieted, and they watched expectantly as Gilthanas passed along the inner edge of the Tower.

But Gilthanas is dead! the mage screamed to himself.

There was something different about Gilthanas, though, he thought. The youth appeared larger; the rbbe was stretched taut across his shoulders. The figure in the robe was more like Tanis than Gilthanas.

But Tanis was dead, too.

Miral’s gaze followed the gray robe as it moved gracefully to the appointed portal and waited.

Solostaran, dressed in his golden-green robes of state, entered from an anteroom and crossed to the rostrum. Solemnly, he mounted the steps to the platform and turned to face the crowd with the small speech that every noble parent had delivered upon a child’s Kentommen for two thousand years.

“This day is one of sorrow for me,” he said simply in the old elven tongue. “I have lost a child.”

In the balcony, Miral suddenly caught the humor of that statement. He rocked with silent laughter. Little did Solos-taran know, he thought. The mage decided to allow the charade to continue a bit longer. Who knew what other tidbits of unwitting mirth the Speaker might come forth with?

His hawklike features somber, Solostaran continued, “I have lost a child to the Grove. Thus, I have no heir. Gan anyone offer comfort?”

One drum roll boomed from the first balcony, below Miral. He heard a door open far below, and three elves, dressed in black silk leggings and capes, with masks and gloves of black leather, stepped into view. The Ulathi.

“We have found a child,” said the first.

“He is pure of heart,” added the second.

“This child is an empty vessel waiting to be filled,” said the third.

They all intoned, “We have found a child who will be made your heir, your blood.”

The gong sounded. Gilthanas swung the door open and passed within. The door closed.

Tanis, entering from the blazing light of the Tower, blinked at the sudden near-darkness. He could see the candle flame flickering, but the figure of Porthios was only a dim shape in the darkness. The medallion that Flint had made mirrored the candle’s glow.

He had to draw Porthios nearer. What had Gilthanas said the words were? He dredged his memory.

“I am your childhood,” he recited, trying to lighten his voice to sound more like Gilthanas. “Leave me behind. The mists are past-” That didn’t sound right, but he was doing the best he could-”Go to your future.”

“Gilthanas!” came Porthios’s horrified whisper. “Say the right words-and in the old tongue!”

Tanis hesitated.

“Don’t you remember them?” Porthios hissed. “Listen.” The Speaker’s son repeated the correct words in the ancient tongue. “Say them.”

Still Tanis hesitated. Porthios stepped closer, as Tanis had wished.

For a heartbeat, Tanis considered merely using his superior strength to overpower his cousin. He had punched Porthios in the face once before, long ago in the courtyard of the palace. That had started the only physical altercation the two cousins had ever had. And it had earned him Porthios’s enmity for years afterward.

“Porthios,” he said in his own voice. “Listen to me. Don’t go out that door.”

“Tanthalas!” Porthios’s face showed shock. “Where is Gilthanas? What have you-?”

“Listen!” Tanis hissed. “If you gained anything at all in your vigil in the Grove, listen to me now.”

His cousin stepped back, seemed to force a calm mien to descend over his features. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “What, Tanis?” he asked in his normal tones.

“There is a conspiracy to kill you and the Speaker.”

“The Speaker? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. I am here to stop the killer.”

“You?” Porthios laughed shortly, but his face was surprisingly kind. “Tanis, you’re only a child…”

Tanis spoke hastily, aware that the onlookers would be getting uneasy outside the door. The worst thing that could happen now would be for someone to open that door and look inside. “Porthios, the same one who killed Xenoth and Eld Ailea is after you and the Speaker, and Laurana. I know this.”

“How do you know it?”

Tanis considered. He was running out of time for persuasion. He could resolve this situation by physical force, but his elven blood shuddered at the prospect of knocking out a youth during his own Kentommen, for whatever reason.

But he could lie.

“Porthios,” Tanis said, “Gilthanas is dead.”

There was a pause; Porthios’s features never changed.

“The murderer slew him, too. Porthios, if you and Laur-ana and the Speaker are killed, it will throw the kingdom into chaos.”

Porthios seemed to be struggling to digest all he’d heard. Tanis’s heart ached for him, for the half-elf’s part in causing that pain. “I have a plan, Porthios.”

The answer came calmly. “What is it?”

“Listen,” Tanis said. “I am expendable…”

Flint peered into the gap in the side of the oak tree that had saved his life months earlier. The tree had opened again in the interim, to the dwarf’s relief. He entered the hollow-ness, Fleetfoot hard on his heels. Flint paid her no attention.

“How did I get through before? What did I do?” he muttered, ankle-deep in dry forest litter, holding a burning brand over his head. “The rune.” He looked down. “The floor of the tree caught fire. Maybe that’s it.” He considered. “Well, if I’m wrong, I’ll merely burn to death.”