Nancy Berberick - The Inheritance

And yet, there wasn't an elf in Qualinost, from the lowliest servitor in the humblest shop to the Speaker of the Sun himself who didn't think that their stalking Prince Kethrenan, who prowled the stonelands when the weather let him, who filled up the city with his own restlessness when even the mad would not brave the wild winds in that treeless land-there wasn't a one who didn't feel what the prince felt.

"He is as cold as winter," said one of the serving girls in the Tower of the Sun. This she whispered to her lover who had brought wine from the cellar one evening when the sky had been three days changed to lead, filled up with dark clouds that would lower but not release.

"In the temples they pray for our stolen princess, and they pray for our prince, and all our broken hearts. But I'm thinking they should pray for all the world, because when you look at our prince, you think, ‘Why, it must be him brought this winter down on us all.’ Him and his cold rage."

Her lover didn't argue. He hardly ever disputed her in any case. Things were much warmer, much easier, much more satisfying if he kept himself agreeable. But here he genuinely thought she was right. He thought the prince was indeed like some dire spirit of loss, a shade of winter.

Gods help us all, he thought later, as he poured for first the elf king and then his ice-eyed brother.

The hall was filled that night with Solostaran’s glittering guests, lords and ladies, the members of his senate, those contentious representatives of the Houses of Qualinesti who liked best to jockey with the king for power when it seemed there was a chance to exercise some. They did not tonight. No power was to be had there, in that public hall whose walls and floor were of marble as stark and cold as the winter without, not when the matter of a kidnapped princess hung so coldly over the gathering, the sorrow unspoken, ever-felt.

One of the senators looked around her at her fellows, at Solostaran and his children, young Gilthanas and Porthios, for this gathering was made to celebrate the anniversary of the birth of Gilthanas. He was still a romping lad, as his brother, but he managed solemnity this night. It hadn't been difficult for either, for they grieved the loss of their aunt as everyone did. Not a senator had occasion-as in times past-to look at another, raise a brow and say quietly, "They are boisterous, those boys. One hopes that will pass…."

This senator who had raised her brow in times past admired the decorum of the boys now. She was the Head of House Cleric, a woman who regularly bestormed the gods in their temples with prayer for the sake of the stolen princess. She watched the wine-server fill the golden goblet set before Prince Kethrenan. She thought, gods help us, for we will live in a land colder than Icereach itself and live there forever if our Princess Elansa is not found.

But then she saw the color come to the prince's pale cheek, just a quick flash of blood beneath the skin as a servant, maimed Demlin, whispered something to him. Kethrenan looked up and caught the eye of his cousin seated halfway down the table. Lindenlea stood, murmuring something to her dinner partner. She had dressed herself in flame-colored silk and whitest ermine. For tonight's dinner she'd hung earrings of amber from her ears, piled her hair upon her head, and held it there with diamond-crusted combs and golden pins. Yet when she rose, the rings on her arms and the necklace she wore rang a little, reminding the cleric of the chime of a mail shirt.

Beside his brother, the elf king leaned close and blood leaped to his cheek as well. Anger, the Head of House Cleric wondered, or hope? Solostaran gestured, a quick wave of the hand. Go! And Kethrenan did, with a nod to Lindenlea, who followed at once.

Like a sword, thought the Lady Cleric as she watched the prince leave. He's like a well-honed sword leaping suddenly to hand. She thought that was a good image, for she was a poet. Like a poet, she felt the truth of it in her bones.

Someone had just brought word to cause a weapon to be drawn forth, and that weapon was Prince Kethrenan.

"Listen," said Lindenlea, her hand on the prince's arm to still him. All his restless energy filled the barracks, crackling. "I’m not telling you not to do this-" His sudden sharp glance did not frighten her. She knew him, and so she simply quirked her lips in wry challenge. "I’m only saying, don't trust him, Keth."

"I know what you're saying. You've been saying it since we left the Tower. But you also tell me Demlin’s seen him, and he thinks I should listen."

Demlin, indeed. Lindenlea didn't say anything to that. One-eared Demlin was a man of single purpose, well matched to his master. Neither Keth nor Demlin thought about much other than the recovery of Elansa. If in the Tower of the Sun they said the prince was driven by his vengeance, in the servants’ quarters they knew Demlin was obsessed by it. Master and man, they shared a kindred grief. First one and then the other had been forced to let the outlaw Brand take away the woman they were sworn to protect.

Kethrenan and Lindenlea stood in an empty barracks, a deserted mess. Wind howled outside the windows, and the dark finger-bones of skeletal apple trees scratched against the panes. They’d smelled snow on the air as they’d walked from the Tower of the Sun to this realm of soldiers. Lindenlea had said it was strange that for all the cold and the wild wind they'd endured this winter, they had seen little snow. Kethrenan wasn't interested in how strange that was. The cold kept him out of the borderland. The wind would freeze an elf’s skin in an hour and sap the strength from limbs. What matter if snow attended or didn't?

"Where is he?" the prince asked. He was no less finely dressed than his cousin, though perhaps not as brightly. He went in black and red, and his cloak was steely gray-the colors of a blooded sword. He paced the deserted room with a measured stride, as though he tried to reckon out the length of it. Once or twice, he dropped his hand as though to touch the hilt of the sword he had belted on. It was not the one he would have worn this night. That one was in the hands of an outlaw.

As was his wife, in one way or another.

Kethrenan tasted blood, as he had since first he'd learned of Elansa’s kidnapping; as he had when the recovery had failed and the only satisfaction he'd had of that day was that his warriors had killed half a hundred goblins. Even that was a lean satisfaction. The hob had gotten away, he and his burning staff.

A sharp voice called out suddenly. Kethrenan knew the tone, if not the man. He didn't stop his pacing or look around. On the heels of that cry came another. Upon the silver spans hemming the city, guard called to guard. "Avrethe!" they shouted in Elvish to the full guard, to all the city. All is well! In Qualinost, folk. marked time by those calls.

Avrethe!

A sharp rap of knuckles on the stout oaken door turned Keth from his pacing.

"That’s him," Lea said. Her eyes went from the prince to the door. "Be careful, Keth."

Be careful. He could be lying. Be careful. It could be a trap. Be careful….

Kethrenan jerked his head at her, a wordless command, and she opened the door. Wind whirled brittle leaves into the room. A pennon of torchlight streamed ahead of the bearer. Lindenlea stepped back, gesturing the two elves in. Necessarily, the gesture included their companion. Wrists tied and led by a thick rope round his neck, the third one might have been better termed a prisoner.

"Now why," whined the goblin, his blue-brown skin looking like spoiled meat in the torchlight, "why is it I'm all the time hearing about the famous hospitality of elves, and this-" He looked up at the elves, tall above him. "This is what I get? I've not come to do harm. No, I've come for other reasons, and-"