The Seventh Sentinel

by Mary Kirchoff

  “It’s best not to get drawn in by things you don’t understand,” Guerrand admonished. “You are a stranger here. Be cautious.”

  Three tuatha pressed through the throng and approached the humans. One of them, a male with an unruly shock of brown hair, carried an intricately carved staff twice as tall as himself. “Bram DiThon and Guerrand DiThon,” he intoned as he stepped forward, “your arrival is noted and your presence is requested by King Weador of the tuatha dundarael. If you would, follow me, please.”

  He turned on his heel and strode purposefully away, followed by his two companions. Bram and his uncle were led across the glade to a second screen of greenery. The two faeries who had not spoken stepped to the side, while the third parted the leaves with his staff. Bram and Guerrand stepped through. The tuatha followed.

  This second area was much like the first, only slightly smaller. But it more than made up for that deficiency in grandeur. Their escort marched halfway down the center of the court, then stopped and planted his staff firmly on the green carpet.

  “King Weador, Queen Listra, Grand Councilor Allern, lords and ladies, attendants of the court, I present Bram and Guerrand DiThon, lord and regent of Thonvil. They do humbly beg the favor of an audience with you, Sire.”

  The tuatha king nodded his head slightly, and the herald—that is what Bram took him to be—motioned the humans forward. Weador’s hair was white as new snow and hung down his back until it brushed the ground. Like a kender, his face didn’t look particularly old, just character-etched with straight, deep brown creases. The effect always reminded Guerrand of a lady’s perfectly folded, oiled parchment fan.

  The royal mantle that draped past Weador’s thighs was made of gopher skins, intricately stitched so that the dash-and-stripe from the back of four pelts formed a continuous diamond pattern that reminded Guerrand of the view through a kaleidoscope. The mage recognized the elaborate, polished gold brooch that held it closed. Weador obviously still favored the fine-spun spider silk tunic and trousers dyed in muted tones of the earth. Soft, mouse-fur boots adorned his small feet.

  Guerrand found his eyes wandering to Weador’s fingers; each of the ten short, thick digits sported a ring. He recognized a few of the scrimshaw rings, but there were new ones of stone and wood, too.

  Weador’s scepter was the same intriguing one Guerrand remembered from the garden back in Thonvil. Its tip was a bleached-white turtle skull, eye sockets filled with shining gold.

  At a wave of the king’s hand, two servants stepped forward and placed a pair of stools behind Bram and Guerrand. Weador motioned for them to be seated.

  The king held both of their gazes with his frost-blue eyes. “Welcome to my court,” he said in smooth, tenor tones. “You are both looking well—prosperous, in fact.”

  “We have you to thank for that, King Weador,” said Bram humbly.

  “That’s only partially true,” Weador said. “I’ve had reports of your hard work. Remember, we tuatha can only embellish what exists.”

  Bram bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  “I was surprised to receive your missive,” said Weador. “I believe this is your first request to come to the court. Is there something amiss in Thonvil?” he asked. “Are my tuatha causing difficulties?”

  “No, King Weador, nothing like that,” Bram assured him hastily. “I requested the audience because I, ah, have an important question to ask—a question to which only you can provide an answer.”

  Weador settled himself back in his throne. “Ask.”

  Bram had rehearsed a dignified speech that sounded more curious than distressed. Now that the moment of discovery had arrived, what came out of his mouth was: “My uncle was told that I am a changeling of the tuatha dundarael. Is it true?”

  Weador’s blue eyes didn’t blink. “Yes. And no.”

  Bram exhaled. “With all due respect, that’s no answer.”

  “I’ll hide nothing from you,” said the king, “but you must let me tell you in my own time. It is a complicated story.” Weador gestured to a servant for drink.

  “How many human years have you now, Bram?” the king asked when carved wooden mugs of fruit cider had been passed to all.

  “The twenty-fourth anniversary of my birth has just passed.”

  The king nodded appreciatively. “Has it been that long? Then twenty-five years ago, in the early days of your father’s stewardship, I predicted a serious decline in the well-being of Thonvil and the surrounding regions.”

  “You predicted my father would fail as lord?” asked Bram.

  “You forget the tuatha proclivity to recognize strength of character.” Weador’s tone was more matter-of-fact than cruel. “However, the specifics of your father’s strengths and weaknesses matter less than their long-range effects. I believed Thonvil would survive Cormac’s reign, despite the decline it would cause. With that in mind, I took unprecedented steps to reverse the trend in the next generation. You were the result of those steps, Bram. And you have exceeded my hopes.”

  “I was an … experiment?”

  The king shifted. “I wouldn’t call it that, especially if it disturbs you.”

  “How can I not be disturbed by the realization that I am not human?” Bram demanded.

  “But you are,” said Weador.

  Bram looked totally confused. “But you said I was a changeling. Are changelings not faerie babies exchanged for human babies?”

  “They can be, though unlike other faerie folk, the tuatha have never engaged in that particular random capriciousness.”

  Bram sank back upon the stool and crossed his arms expectantly, willing patience.

  Weador recognized Bram’s frustration. “I considered both Cormac’s flaws and Rietta’s frailties,” he continued quickly. “Acknowledging the significance humans place upon primogeniture through the male line, it was magically arranged for a tuatha woman to carry Cormac’s child, giving it both greater strength of character and magical abilities. Rietta was already with child at the time, and our intention was to exchange the babies. However, Rietta’s and Cormac’s child was stillborn just days after the chosen tuatha woman’s child—you, Bram—was born healthy and entirely human in appearance. The exchange was simple to arrange in the confusion and fog of their grief.”

  “So you fooled them into thinking their son had come back to life!”

  Weador’s eyebrows raised. “He did, for one of them anyway. You were Cormac DiThon’s true son.”

  No amount of preparation had steeled Bram for the truth he’d sought. Left to his thoughts in the darkness of his chambers, he had wondered if he might be only half-tuatha, considering his human appearance. He had even discussed it with Guerrand. But based on Cormac’s lifetime of little interaction with his son, he had decided that Rietta must have been his human parent.

  Bram thought of his father, who had obviously believed the same. Cormac had tainted his relationship with his true son and his wife out of ignorance, likely concluding that Rietta had betrayed him. If he’d only possessed the courage to voice those false accusations. But then, who would Cormac have asked, hating magic as he did?

  Bram’s eyes widened abruptly. “Does my … mother still live?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Weador’s veneer cracked for the first time, and an unexpected look of pain flashed across his creased face. “Yes, I believe so. That is my hope, anyway.”

  Bram heard only “yes.” He scanned the faces of the tuatha nearby. “Is she here? Can I meet her?”

  Guerrand touched his nephew’s shoulder again. “You already have a lot to consider, Bram. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather rest before you take on more?”

  “No, I couldn’t rest knowing she’s nearby.”

  “I’m afraid you must wait,” said Weador. “Primula no longer lives in our community.”

  “Primula,” Bram repeated dully. His true mother’s name. “Where is she, if not here?”

  “Just as with humans, there are pockets of
tuatha all over Krynn. Primula left our settlement to establish her own community shortly after your birth.”

  “Tell me about her,” Bram prompted. “Why was she chosen to—” His voice trailed off.

  “Produce you?” supplied Weador. The king’s frost-blue eyes took on a faraway gleam. “I confess I chose her because I favored her. Primula was a very special tuatha. Her leadership potential was recognized early on. She had begun training as a matriarch, one of the spiritual leaders of the tuatha dundarael. I believe humans would call one such as her a priestess.”

  Weador bent forward, leaning on the turtle shell staff. “Primula had a quick and curious mind. She was always questioning things, from the purpose of our existence to the appropriateness of our traditional dress. I suspect she agreed to carry you because I asked her to. In those days she would have done anything to please me, for I was something of a father figure to her—well, as close to one as we tuatha get.”

  Weador snapped back from his musings. “To recognize the significance of that, you must first understand that our sense of family differs from yours. The tuatha community as a whole shares responsibility for raising children.”

  “No one knows who his parents are?” asked Bram.

  Weador shrugged. “We all know, but it simply isn’t very important.”

  “If my mother was such a devoted follower of yours, why did she leave you?”

  The look of pain crossed Weador’s face again. “You would need to ask her that.” The king leaned back in his throne. “An idea comes to me that may help both of us achieve what we seek.”

  Bram held his palms up. “Forgive me if I’m suspicious of agreeing to another deal, Weador.”

  “After seeing the success of our joint venture in your village, would you say I have failed to uphold my end of the bargain?”

  Bram saw the faces of the happy and prosperous villagers of Thonvil in his mind. “No, it has been good for both our people,” he conceded. “But you should have told me the truth about my heritage.”

  “Do we mortals ever know the whole truth of our lives?” Weador asked, more to himself than to Bram. “Anyway,” he continued, “the truth would have distracted you, as you are distracted by it now. Neither Thonvil, nor we tuatha, could have waited for you to come to terms with your heritage. But you have time for it now.”

  “What are you proposing?” asked Bram.

  “Find Primula,” Weador said. “All tuatha embark on a journey of self-discovery to mark a spiritual coming-of-age. Most use the experience to determine the direction of their life’s work. Though it is typically a journey of the mind only, there is no reason the body cannot search for the spirit’s answers. I believe that when you meet your mother, you will also find the answers you seek.”

  “You said this benefits both of us. What’s in it for you?” Bram asked bluntly.

  “Primula’s departure created a schism among the tuatha. I would see that rift mended. If that’s not possible, I would like at least to know that Primula is well.”

  Bram looked at him in surprise. “You once told me that there was little in the magical world to which you were not privy.”

  “I am not omnipotent,” said Weador. “Though I haven’t spoken with Primula since she left, I knew where she took her followers. In my recent efforts to ascertain her well-being, I discovered that she relocated her sect; I no longer detect her presence. I can only presume she has intentionally severed any link between us.” Weador’s shoulders sagged visibly beneath the fur mantle. “The alternative is too disturbing for me to consider.”

  And for Bram, too. He could not bear the thought that he had got this close to discovering his heritage, only to find out his true mother was dead.

  “All right,” the lord of Thonvil said at last. “I’ll find Primula—for both our sakes.”

  The palanquin swayed gently, pleasantly upon the shoulders of the potentate’s slaves. The part of Lyim that would always enjoy the finer things in life was glad Potentate Aniirin had insisted upon sending the conveyance to carry him to tonight’s gala. Lyim had initially protested the gesture on the grounds that he did not deserve such an honor. But the potentate recognized that as false modesty and pressed the point. Lyim had no choice but to agree, with the concession that the carriage be the simplest the palace possessed and not bear Aniirin’s insignia.

  As if anyone else in all the Plains of Dust could afford such an opulent, velvet-trimmed conveyance, thought Lyim. He leaned back among the fringed pillows and settled the warm furs higher before sipping his springwater from a pewter-edged goblet. He felt safe enough from assassins. Even so, Salimshad had arranged for Lyim’s usual retinue of bodyguards to surround the conveyance on the trip to the palace.

  Lyim pushed back a small, gold-embroidered patch to peer out the palanquin’s peephole. The avenue to the palace was lined with waving, rag-wrapped citizens, watching the city’s elite arrive for the rare gala amid swirling dust and snowflakes. Lamps had already been lit. Their bluish light mingled with the orange glow of an enormous sun setting behind the glittering palace at the end of the avenue.

  The palace was such a contrast to the squalor that surrounded it. Tumbledown stone buildings and large wooden crates that served as homes abutted the beautifully maintained, sixty-foot-high granite wall encircling the palace. The streets belonged to a world far different than that of the palace.

  Lyim’s own district had recently looked equally run-down. He had raised the standard of living, but only Salimshad knew his true reason for doing so: There was no greater enslaver than gratitude. Raise them up from poverty higher than they could ever hope to rise on their own, let them know the price for betrayal, and they will stay with you forever. The slaves who carried Lyim now would leave their master, the potentate, in a heartbeat if they could break their chains. But Lyim’s unchained followers were loyal for life.

  The palanquin bearers left the last wretched citizen behind as they marched in rhythm through the filigreed gates and onto the palace grounds. The road split into a circle that surrounded a statue of Aniirin I. The palanquin stopped swaying abruptly, followed by the sounds of booted feet marching in place. The stomping ceased, the emerald-green curtains parted, and Salimshad’s familiar veiled face poked inside.

  “All secure,” said the elf in a dark, cryptic cant he and Lyim used only with each other.

  Lyim swung his legs through the opening and dropped his feet to the marble steps. Without the warmth of the palanquin’s furs he shivered in the chill air. Salimshad gazed meaningfully at the fashionably flashy attire of the nobles stepping from the other conveyances, then looked at Lyim’s dress with a disapproving frown.

  Salimshad had tried to talk his master into wearing something befitting the occasion. “This night is in your honor,” he’d reminded him.

  But Lyim had insisted on his usual brown vest over a long dun tunic and flowing trousers. “Let them see I have the confidence to flout convention. It makes me mysterious.” As a small concession to the occasion, Lyim had covered his stubble of hair with the elaborate and colorfully embroidered turban favored by the other amirs.

  Lyim accepted but did not return the polite nods of those same men upon the steps. They were as nothing compared to the magnificent structure behind them. Strangely, it was not the exterior of the palace that impressed the viewer. There was little besides stained glass and sheer size—and five hundred thirty-two greening copper minarets—to catch the eye here. A dome had been added each year since the laying of the cornerstone, varying in size from a large observation deck to ones too small to support even a kender. The current year’s minaret was always a work in progress, its size determined by the city’s coffers. During the current potentate’s indifferent reign, the minarets had been on the small side.

  Surrounded by his bodyguards, Lyim felt the press of curious eyes as he mounted the marble steps to the towering entrance. The arched, double door was of plain, polished copper. Unlike the minarets, the door appeared t
o have maintained its rich color because of the protection of an overhang.

  Lyim could never quite subdue the awe he felt upon entering the palace. The entryway itself would have shamed almost any house in the upscale section of Palanthas that housed the nobility. Every inch of the floors, arched walls, and vaulted ceilings were inlaid with copper and gold in intricate repeating patterns. Encircling the base of the entryway’s dome was writing Lyim recognized all too well—words of magic.

  Thirty columns ringed the circular entry, each topped by a capital fashioned of rolled copper, then connected by arches carved from alternating wedges of black and white marble. Though it was now dark outside, light flooded through stained glass windows set at regular intervals high above in the dome.

  “Mavrus approaches,” whispered Salimshad.

  Aniirin called Mavrus his “manservant” because the man’s male ancestors had served that function for previous potentates. But anyone who met Mavrus even briefly knew the title was inadequate. In reality, Mavrus functioned as chief vizier, counselor, and manservant rolled into one. While the potentate sought advice from no one, he spoke freely to Mavrus. He was to Anirrin what Salimshad was to Lyim, which was why both men respected Mavrus’s position, if not the man himself.

  Mavrus was a short, thick man in the autumn of his life. Sparse, graying hair fanned artfully across a broad forehead whose bones were all too visible through transparent skin. Tonight, as always, he was dressed in the long, formal cloak, slippers, and turban Aniirin required of his household staff. He looked soft, but he moved with the quiet fluidity of a practiced fighter.

  “Welcome, Amir Rhistadt,” pronounced Mavrus in the slick, modulated accent of Old Kharolian. He held up a tray that supported a single, slender goblet containing Lyim’s preferred springwater.

  Lyim took the glass by the whisper-thin stem and sipped indifferently.

  “Potentate Aniirin has been anxiously anticipating your arrival. He awaits you in the hanging gardens. Please, follow me.”