Dave Gross - Lord of Stormweather

Thamalon smiled warmly at him as he approached.

"Well met, Lord Uskevren."

"Don't call me that," said Tamlin. "Not you."

"It makes me proud to know you are the one who carries on my name," said Thamalon. "You did well with the Hulorn. Perhaps you could have spared the house another scorching, but…"

"You always find something to criticize."

"I'm joking, Tamlin."

"I know," he said. "I know. I just wish you could…"

"I know. So did I, at first, but now that I've spent some time here, now that I've seen you and your brother and sisters fighting side by side instead of toe-to-toe, I know it is time."

"But there's so much you could teach me."

"I've taught you everything you need to know."

"But I wasn't listening!"

Thamalon laughed and said, "No, you weren't. Still, you heard enough of it. I'm tired, ever since coming to this place, wearier than you can possibly imagine. I need you to open a door for me."

"Which one?"

Thamalon looked up, toward a half-gallery upon one wall.

"That one feels right," he said. "I've said my good-byes, and I cannot bear to say them again without being able to hold your mother in my arms."

Together they flew toward the door. Its oak surface gleamed as they approached. When Tamlin opened it, he smelled summer grass and grape leaves. Sunlight poured down upon arbors and vineyards nestling between hills of deep green forest.

Thamalon sighed and drifted toward the fields, his sorrowful smile turning ever more content as he slowly twirled down into eternity.

The cold wind whipped the Uskevren banners as the moon gleamed on the gold thread on the horse-at-anchor. Tamlin closed his eyes as he faced the wind. After a moment's reverie, he turned back to his lone companion on the rooftop.

"Where will you go?"

Radu shrugged and said, "East. Perhaps across the Moonsea." His uncovered face looked like a hideous mask, with sharp fragments of the bone blade that had crippled him jutting from his cheek and brow. "I will abide by our compact," he said.

"Stay well away from Selgaunt," said Tamlin, "and for the gods' sake, never let Talbot learn of our arrangement."

"So long as you continue to foster Laskar and Pietro."

"They shall be as cousins to the Uskevren, living here, within the halls of Stormweather."

"Then I shall never need to return."

Tamlin nodded to acknowledge the unspoken threat. He'd known his bargain with Radu Malveen would require that he allow the assassin to live and thus ensure that Tamlin would uphold his promises. In return, Radu had agreed to invoke his peculiar powers one last time. With the escape of his ghosts at the moment of Tamlin's death, he might have escaped his inevitable disintegration, but he'd willingly accepted it once more.

Tamlin felt a surprising admiration for the man who had killed him. He didn't like Radu Malveen, but he couldn't deny that the assassin had been faultlessly loyal to his family.

Together they looked out over the moonlit roofs of Selgaunt, Radu for the last time. From the vantage of Stormweather's highest tower, Tamlin could see the entire city from Mountarr Gate in the west to the farthest tower south of Selgaunt Bay. To the northwest, the Hulorn's weird palace looked unusually serene in its mantle of snow.

Who would reside there next was an issue the Old Chauncel had still not resolved. After their ordeal in the recent spell duel, they were even more fractious than usual. It could take months before a new candidate emerged for approval-assuming that Thamalon's proposal to eliminate the office entirely was dismissed. Without his personal efforts, Tamlin feared, it soon would be, then it was only a matter of time before a new Hulorn was chosen.

"Can he communicate with you?" asked Tamlin.

"He never stops," Radu said.

Tamlin suppressed a smile. It was hardly a humorous subject, but the thought of Chaney Foxmantle choosing to remain with his killer even after the Stormweather portal freed him from his leash amused Tamlin to no end. It also made him sad to think that Chaney could not bear to reveal himself to Talbot for fear that he would lure his friend to vengeance against a foe who might well kill him.

Tamlin said, "Actually, I meant Andeth."

"He is even worse."

"Serves you right," said Tamlin, who could only imagine the bitter ravings of the man called Mad Andy. Even if Tamlin couldn't punish Radu personally, it pleased him to think that someone would. "Now, get out of my city."

They watched as the last of the wounded skwalos slowly rose above the bloody cobbles of the flensing grounds. It was a mere child, no larger than a trading cog. Its immature body was still as translucent as a wine bottle, and its membranous skin caught and refracted the sunlight to cast rippling patterns over the crowd, making the elves and humans alike appear to be standing fathoms beneath the waves.

"Don't look so sad," said Larajin. "Everyone is looking to you for strength."

She held onto Tamlin's arm, weary from exhausting her magic to heal the surviving skwalos. Even all of her divine powers had been barely enough to allow the crippled animals to return to the sky.

"You are the one they should thank," said Tamlin. "All I've done is repeal a few of my grandfather's most egregious dictates. It will take much more than a few merciful gestures to repair all the harm he has done."

Tamlin was surprised by both his strange sense of responsibility for the evil committed in his guise and his acute sympathy for the skwalos. The slaughter of a stag or boar hunt had never given him qualms, but these creatures were mined for their flesh and vapors while still alive. It was all he could do to keep his expression stately and assured before the Vermilion Guard. The elite soldiers were already suspicious of the sudden changes in their master. Tamlin knew there were whispers that the elves had somehow managed to possess his body during the brief, aborted war. He hoped he would not have to electrocute a few would-be assassins to retain his authority.

Across from his honor guard stood the elves, who watched Tamlin every bit as carefully for any sign that his promised concessions were a ruse to buy time. Among the emissaries dispatched to ensure that he fulfilled his promises of the tentative truce were three ancient wizards, two women and a man. Beside them stood Malaika, her dark eyes full of mingled hope and caution. Tamlin had wanted to stand with her, to ask her a thousand more questions, but he knew that standing among the elves would only undermine the already crumbling loyalty among his men.

"I just wish everyone knew I wasn't the Sorcerer," he said quietly.

"Some know already," said Larajin, nodding toward Malaika. "Until the rest are ready for the truth, they need to believe their leader is still with them."

"For now, perhaps, but I can't keep trying to lead both our household and this… this dreamland."

"It isn't a dream, you know."

"I know," agreed Tamlin. "It just doesn't seem as real. It doesn't seem as important as…"

"Home?" offered Larajin.

"Home," he agreed. "Speaking of which, it is almost time to return. I promised Tal that I would write him a receipt for the gold we found hidden in Escevar's chamber."

"I think your word might be good enough," she suggested. "It's time you and he learned to trust each other."

"Perhaps," said Tamlin, "but Father would have wanted me to write a receipt anyway."

Larajin smiled wistfully and said, "No doubt he would. While you're at it, don't forget to talk with Thazienne about that Soargyl business. She still seems angry with you."

"I haven't forgotten," sighed Tamlin. "I just hope she doesn't punch me in the nose before I can finish explaining."