by Jack Conner
When Jered withdrew, Baleron took his father aside. “I will not go,” he said.
Albrech looked surprised. “Why? Don’t you know what an honor it is? Mark me, I don’t like the elves, but you cannot throw this offer in the queen’s face.”
“Wherever I go, destruction follows, Father. Clevaris is too beautiful. I would break it.”
“Bah! I was at Oksil, too, or have you forgotten? And I was at Celievsti. I didn’t cause their destruction. And neither did you. So quit this foolishness before I strike you!”
“It was my Doom that did it. I know it.”
Albrech’s hard eyes turned flinty. “I may not know much about Light or Grace, son, but I know one thing, and that’s that no sort of curse felled the White Tower. Only one thing could do that, and that was Elethris’s death, and the deaths of his highest chiefs. Some spy, some assassin, slipped in amid the confusion and brought this about. That’s what did it. Not your Doom. Not some prophecy. A few inches of steel.” He added bitterly, “Or teeth.”
Baleron thought on this. Perhaps his father was right.
“Good,” Albrech said, seeing his stance soften. “Now come.”
Prince Jered escorted them into the city, but Baleron still felt such grief that he could not fully enjoy the spectacles that waited within. And indeed, there were so many wonders, so many lofty things, that most became a blur to him, great trees and mansions, song drifting from a tower. The palace loomed like a cluster of white towers bestriding the river ahead. Not only did the Larenth pass through the heart of the city, Jered told them, it actually entered the palace to form the bathing pools of the Queen. At last Jered led them to the wide marble steps that led up to it, and they ascended past thick marble columns towards the great open doors. It was said that the doors of the Palace were always open. Jered led them inside into a great hall.
“Welcome,” Jered said.
Albrech seemed to be regarding Jered strangely. Baleron watched his father’s face and wondered what that look might signify, but Jered seemed not to notice.
“We are not here to gawk,” Albrech said. “Take us to the queen.”
Nonplussed at the king’s shortness, Jered’s gaze strayed from Albrech to Baleron.
Baleron shrugged. “He’s always like this.”
Jered laughed. His laugh was easy and good-natured. The light made his blond hair shine. “This way,” he said.
He led them up a winding staircase that cut through an open space so high that Baleron grew dizzy, and down a certain hallway. Servants and soldiers moved about in small groups, tending to business in a grim and efficient manner. It was clear that war had come upon them. Jered led King and Prince Grothgar up another set of stairs and then another. Baleron was panting and out of breath by the time they began rising up a spiral, and he realized they were ascending to one of the ivory spires. Remarkably, though Albrech was sweating and out of breath, it was Baleron who had to call for a breather. Just the same, Albrech did not protest.
When they reached the top, Jered ushered them into an ornate suite and there Baleron received his first glimpse of the queen. He saw only her back, for she stood looking out a window cut in the wall gazing out over her city. Her hair was golden, but it was the only thing bright about her. She wore all gray, the Larenthin color of mourning. Her very posture seemed withdrawn, and she looked very frail. Could this truly be the legend that had summoned much of the forests of her country with just her voice, that had helped build the mighty kingdom of Larenthi alongside Felias?
Though grief-stricken, she was graceful and regal, and when she turned Baleron saw lovely jade green eyes and a face that held classic lines of beauty, with high cheekbones and a proud chin. He had heard it said that she drew strength from the earth like a river draws strength from tributaries, but her lips were thin and her ageless face looked ashen. A few of her hairs seemed to be turning white at their roots, and Baleron wondered if grief would turn her golden hair to snow. He found himself hoping it would not.
Her gaze went from Albrech to Baleron, then back. “Thank you for meeting me,” she said with a voice that was trying to be strong, trying to push past the sadness, and only partly succeeding.
“Thank you for having us,” Albrech replied, using his most diplomatic tone.
“I will leave you,” said Jered, closing the door after him.
“He is a likely lad,” said Albrech, an odd note in his voice.
“So he is,” said Queen Vilana. “We are very fond of him.”
Baleron found that a bizarre comment. Of course she would be fond of her son!
“Shall we sit?” She gestured, and they sat. “Would you care for a drink? I think you will find our water sweet and refreshing.”
“No more pleasantries,” King Grothgar said. “After the long climb, I don’t have the energy to engage in idle chatter.”
She stared at him mildly, then nodded. “Very well. I forget the limits of a mortal body. But are you not thirsty?”
“I am not.” His voice was a whip.
She sighed. “Then I will make it simple. First, I called you here to thank you for lending aid to the survivors of Celievsti. Without you, they would surely have been overrun.”
“Just you remember that.”
She ignored the ungracious comment. “However, it is the second reason I brought you here that weighs on me, for I would keep all troops close by.”
“Yes?”
She seemed to summon her strength. “Go,” she said simply. “Take your troops and go. Return to Glorifel with all speed. I foresee war shall be upon you soon.”
“War come to Havensrike?” This clearly startled him, and Baleron too. Suddenly, his hands were clammy.
“How can you be sure?” Baleron asked.
The queen looked at Baleron, then Albrech. “It is what I have felt—what I have seen—in waking dreams, waking nightmares. Mark me well: Gilgaroth is launching the Final War, and both our kingdoms will be tried and tested in the days ahead. We are the twin pillars of the Crescent, and the Crescent is the guardian of the Wolf. Should we fall, the Wolf will devour all. We must survive if there is to be any freedom left in the world. I will do my part here. You must protect Glorifel. It is near the border of Havensrike and will be his first point of attack once he crosses over.”
Looking chastened, Albrech said, “If what you say is true, my men and I must be off at once.” He rose. “Though I hate to leave you in such dire straits ...”
“They are dire indeed,” she admitted. “Even now the Shadow burns and razes the country that I have spent many long centuries building and growing and tending to. But we here in Clevaris will be safe for a time. We keep our waters pure, and strong. Grudremorq will not get past them easily, and if he does he will have to face our walls.” She paused. “Thank you for aiding us, for honoring our alliance and going to war with us against Ungier.”
“Do not thank me for that, woman. Curse me instead! By being predictable I’ve helped damn us all. Our war on Oksil brought the fall of Celievsti upon us—some assassin slipped through—and maybe in time the fall of the Crescent itself.”
“Yes. These events are like beads on a string. One follows the other, and they are all connected, and all along a straight path, a path to our destruction. And, honestly, I do not know how we can defeat the Breaker this time. He has grown mighty indeed, and the Omkar are scattered and weak.”
“He has a plan,” Baleron said suddenly, speaking past the lump in his throat. “I don’t know what it is, but these beads on a string you mention—well, I’m the string.”
“Bah!” said Albrech.
“No,” said the queen. “Let him speak. It is why I invited him here. Go on, Prince.”
Baleron nodded shakily. His mouth was dry, and he could hear the tremor in his voice as he said, “Gilgaroth cursed me and sent me to Celievsti after he’d slain Itherin. I’m no expert, but it seems to me that this must’ve weakened the White Tower.”
As he had hoped
, Vilana supplied the rest. “It would. And it would make the tower more vulnerable, relying solely on Elethris and his most powerful apprentices to keep it aloft. Though Elethris reared that spire, Itherin’s power kept it mighty. With her death, it was diminished greatly, though he tried to hide it.”
Baleron nodded. “Gilgaroth knew that once I reached Celievsti, we’d make war on Ungier, and he set a trap for us—for Grudremorq to crush our armies and, I suppose, to allow for an assassin to infiltrate our number, though how he did that I don’t know. Have you any notion?”
“I cannot perceive his mind. I stretch out my thoughts, but he blocks me, then tries to ensnare me.”
“Enough talk,” Albrech said shortly. “We must be off.”
“This is important,” Baleron told him. “My Doom triggered all this, and I’m afraid my Doom will trigger still more.”
Vilana studied Baleron closely. “I do not believe in the prophecy of il Enundian, yet I sense somehow that you will decide the issue one way or the other.”
“Bah,” snorted King Grothgar. “He’s just a pup. What can he do?”
“I am no pup,” Baleron said.
“No,” agreed Queen Vilana. “You are something far more dangerous.”
“You’re talking to a prince of Havensrike, madam,” King Grothgar growled.
Baleron shook his head. “Elethris told me my Doom was fulfilled, that I was free. But he was wrong. I tried to believe him, but that was before Celievsti. Can you feel it, Queen Vilana? Feel my Doom?”
“It is like a shadow on this place.”
Baleron grit his teeth. “Damn it! I knew it! Elethris said it was weak. What lives were lost because of that, I wonder?”
“It was not the Enemy he underestimated, it was the importance of a single mortal man.” She matched his gaze levelly. “I do not make that mistake.”
To that, he said nothing.
“There is more,” she said. “Worse.”
‘Tell us.”
“When Celievsti fell, when its bonds broke, the powers that held it together should have returned to the land. They did not. They were ... drawn away. Siphoned off the south.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, but I know where it went, and what it is for. Gilgaroth swallowed it. Even now that power sits in his belly, changing, being corrupted to a form he can use. When it is ready, he will vomit it forth and raise his own tower, the one the singers tell of in songs of the end times, the black tower of Krogbur. It is said that from the base of Krogbur his Champion—you, Baleron—will lead his hosts forth to the final battle.”
“Surely there’s some way you can rid me of this curse,” Baleron said.
“While Gilgaroth lives, your Doom will follow you. It is wound about your very soul.”
He shuddered.
“There is no way I can remove it without killing you,” she added.
“Enough!” cried Albrech. “I said enough!”
Ignoring him, Baleron told her quietly, “Then kill me. Whatever it takes, this Doom must be destroyed.”
Albrech physically pulled him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. Baleron shoved back. The two locked angry eyes on each other.
Vilana’s melodic voice cut the tension. “Easy,” she said. “Easy.”
A lightness settled over Baleron’s mind, and his father relaxed, as well. The two took a step back, both breathing heavily.
Baleron turned to the Queen. “Do what must be done,” he said.
“I told you that you could decide the issue of the war one way or the other. But you must be alive to do so. As much as I hate to let you loose into the world, for I recognize the threat you pose, I must release you for the good that you can do. You may damn us yet, but you may save us, too.”
Relief swept him. To his father, he said, “Perhaps it would be best for me to leave you. I would not have my curse follow me to Glorifel. I will go out on my own, where I can cause no further harm to anyone. I will wander the forests and strike down what enemies I can in my own way.”
Albrech snorted. “I told you that I would need you in the days ahead, son. So I shall. Don’t run off on me now. If the queen’s vision is true, then our darkest hour has arrived. Do not abandon me now.”
Vilana watched the prince carefully. “It is in your hands,” she said.
The king ordered the men to ready themselves for another long journey. They were weary and dispirited, but they obeyed. After he had finished issuing orders, the king stood before his tent and smoked a pipe, gazing upon his soldiers with pride and grief. Baleron, who had completed his duties, approached him, and together they stood side by side, neither speaking. The breeze whispered over the tall green grass.
“What have you decided?” the king asked finally.
“First tell me of Rolenya. I know she’s an elf. What I don’t know is why.”
Reluctantly, Albrech nodded. “Yes. It’s time. Past time. She may be dead.”
Baleron had been thinking the same thing every minute of every day since Celievsti’s collapse. “She was seen escaping. And not all the survivors stayed at the site. We found them scattered all over. She might still be out there, roaming the hills of Larenthi.”
Albrech expelled air harshly through his nose. “Perhaps.”
“Regardless, I need to know.”
“Then come.”
Albrech ducked into his tent, which would be the last thing taken down. He sat on a bench at a table laden with maps, and Baleron sat across from him. From outside the canvas walls came the sounds of the troops preparing for the march, the beat of hammers as equipment was disassembled, the stomp of hooves, the rustling of satchels being stuffed, the cursing of soldiers.
Baleron studied his father closely. Albrech looked old and tired, but a relentless determination filled him, made his eyes gleam. This was the sort of man other men would follow gladly, Baleron knew. No matter his harshness, Albrech Grothgar was a true leader.
Now his eyes were troubled. “Are you sure you want to hear?”
“I’m sure,” Baleron said.
“Don’t say I didn’t give you the chance.”
“Go on.”
“Your sister,” said Albrech, “is not your sister.”
Baleron didn’t interrupt. Ever since seeing her standing next to King Felias, and even years earlier when he’d heard her singing at Gulrothrog, the prince had half-suspected something like this. Yet that did not make hearing it any easier.
Uncharacteristically perturbed, Albrech appeared to steel himself, and continued: “Long ago, before the time of the first Grothgar king, back when our relations with the elves were closer than they are now—and that would not be difficult—before we threw off the yoke of their lies, it was customary for Havensrike and Larenthi to exchange royal siblings: the Swap, as it was known. That is, Felias and Vilana would when they had a child send it to be raised by the Lord of Havensrike, and the reverse. When Queen Vilana was without child, they would ask for volunteers from among the noble houses. And thus it was, through the centuries. The Swap was good, if you like the outcome: our ties were strengthened.”
Baleron nodded. Royal wards or fosterlings were not that uncommon. Moreover, he vaguely thought he had heard of the custom his father spoke of, a custom supposedly lost in antiquity. “What happened when the child reached adulthood?”
“They’d be transferred back to their true family. Usually they were told the truth long before then, sometimes not. For good or bad, the Swap seemed to further the relationship between our countries. And so it was perpetuated. For a time.”
His eyes returned to his son, full of strength. “When our forefather threw off that elvish yoke, the custom of the Swap ended—at least, so far as the populace of Havensrike was concerned. Yet even in the height of his dislike for the elves, King Grothgar I recognized the Swap’s value. What better way could our two nations ensure we understood each other and respected each other than to allow our most noble sons and
daughters to be raised by the other side once every fifty years? The bettered relations that came with it ensured trade, and exchange of ideas and resources.
“Even if he wanted to lessen influence of Larenthi, he didn’t want to lessen all the benefits the Alliance. That would be folly. Yet he couldn’t continue the custom of the Swap, not in public, not after declaring the elves oppressors and liars, not after all but completely severing ties with them.”
“So he decided to continue the tradition in secret,” said Baleron, understanding.
“Yes. That way, the people of Havensrike would be under the impression that the yoke was cast off and our kingdom free, most of the elves driven out or encouraged to leave—save for the yllimmi, whom we needed, and a few rogues whom we didn’t. But in reality the Swap would still stand, and King Felias would know, and Larenthi would know, and our ties would still be strong enough to weather the storms, if not much stronger. Trade would still exist, to a certain extent, even if more heavily taxed, and naturally we would still fight alongside each other when the need arose. As to what story was used to return the children to their rightful homes—that we took case by case.”
He paused, gathering his strength, but before he could finish Baleron spoke. “So Rolenya is really King Felias’s daughter, not yours.”
Albrech stared at him for a long, tense moment, then finally nodded with a hissing release of breath. To Baleron’s surprise, tears hovered behind those dark, kingly eyes.
“Yes,” Albrech admitted, and his voice carried great sadness. “Though I grew to love her—and I’m ashamed for saying this—more than I loved my own children. Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this. Perhaps ...” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were clear and dry, if his face no less pained. “Her laughter and her songs brightened the castle. I grew to think of it as dreary without her presence. She was one of the Light-born, true, but even among them she stood out. Of them all, she was most filled with the Grace of the Omkarathons, though she never seemed to realize it. I think that made me love her all the more. So much did I love the idea of being her father, and so much did I love her thinking it true, that I never told her otherwise. I know it pained Felias and Vilana not to be able to claim her all these years, not to be able to know her and be parents to her—but then they had my son Jered.”