[Meetings 01] - Kindred Spirits

by Mark Anthony

  * * * * *

  Miral stood gravely at the edge of the central area of the Tower of the Sun. The double mosaics soared six hundred feet above him, marble walls gleaming in the light of four hundred torches and the sunlight reflected by countless mirrors, fitted right into the wall. Already the hall was filling with nobles. Lord Litanas stood at the base of the rostrum. Lady Selena, whose hair looked distinctly blonder than the last time the mage had seen her, gazed at the new adviser with violet-eyed fondness from her position near the entry hall. She spared no glance for Ulthen, who sulked near the back.

  Lord Tyresian obviously had found someone to repair the ceremonial sword he now wore at his side, as he stood next to Laurana, near the rostrum. Paying no attention to Tyresian, Laurana appeared nervous, continually looking around her.

  As a coordinator of the Kentommen, Miral had been able to tell the nobles where to stand, implying that he was merely passing along the Speaker's will. Laurana's position would put her near Porthios and Solostaran when Miral released his magic, he mused.

  It was a shame that Lauralanthalasa had refused his marriage offer. He would have changed so many of his plans for her. In fact, he'd delayed them for years, waiting for the day he could declare himself to her and receive her love. He would have given up the Speakership for Laurana; he wondered if he should have told her that. Women adored feeling that their suitors would give up the world for them. In Laurana's case, that was close to true; he might have.

  "Weak mage," he said hoarsely to himself, and laughed. He had been strong since he was a child—since he'd met the Graystone of Gargath in the caverns.

  Miral moved toward the right of the rostrum, edging toward the stairs that spiraled upward between the marble inner wall and the gold outer wall of the Tower. Anyone who saw him would assume that the elf who was helping to coordinate Porthios's Kentommen was trying to get a better view of the proceedings from the second balcony, one level above the musicians. The crowd, however, wouldn't be able to see him when he released the magic that would open the top of the Tower and rain fire from above. And if someone saw him, it wouldn't matter anyway.

  No one would be left alive to tell.

  He stepped slowly up the steps, pausing to catch his breath. He'd become weaker of late. Like it or not, Xenoth's death by magic had drained him. But the tylor hunt had been such a splendid opportunity, once the adviser threatened to reveal what he'd learned about Miral. It had been so easy to buy a few extra days of silence, promising many more riches to come. Nosy old coot, Miral thought; the midwife, too, though he'd genuinely regretted ending her life. The mage had hoped the nobles would blame Xenoth's death on the tylor's magic, but then Miral had seen Tanis aiming the second arrow — fitted with the arrowhead the mage had enchanted when he slipped into Flint's shop late one night. And the mage had seized his chance to confound them all. It had been a small matter to order the enchanted arrow to fly into the dead adviser's chest.

  What a shame that the nobles gathering in the Tower would not live to know his brilliance, Miral thought.

  * * * * *

  Leaves and branches swatted Flint in the face as he urged Fleetfoot through the forest. They'd been traveling for half an hour, and while the dwarf had experienced fleeting moments of recognition—that particular juxtaposition of boulder and bur oak, for example—he still could not say for sure where he was.

  Fleetfoot, though, appeared to have a goal, and while Flint wasn't too happy about trusting the situation to a bone-brained, lovesick mule, it was the best choice he had right now.

  * * * * *

  The killer must be Tyresian, Tanis thought as he ran. The half-elf no longer made any attempt to hide the slapping of his sword between his robe and his leggings. The elves in the street, acting in accordance with Kentommen strictures, carefully averted their eyes as he passed. Just in case, he continued to hold the hood before his face, however.

  Perhaps it was Litanas, Tanis added to himself. The young elf lord, who had completed his own Kentommen only a year earlier, had gained considerably from Xenoth's death; Litanas had succeeded the old adviser and won the wealthy Lady Selena. And perhaps Ailea had found a way to link Litanas with Xenoth's death.

  This was discouraging and frightening. Tanis didn't have enough information to know who had masterminded Ailea's and Xenoth's deaths and attempted two more—Gilthanas's and Tanis's own. All he knew was that the attempt on Gilthanas had meant Flint was right: Porthios, the Speaker, and Laurana were in terrible danger. Ignoring his aching lungs, he ran on.

  * * * * *

  It was the same clearing, Flint was sure. The same huge boulder, the same stand of spruce. Trees still lay in splinters on the ground, and a path had been crushed through the understory of trees. Trees and stone alike showed slash marks.

  He had found the clearing where the tylor had first attacked him.

  From here, he hoped, he could find the sla-mori.

  If he could just get there in time.

  If he could just remember everything he had done to open the sla-mori the first time.

  * * * * *

  Miral looked down at the assemblage from the deserted second balcony. His clear eyes glinted.

  He saw Laurana's golden hair glittering in the torchlight, and for a moment, he felt sadness—over what he had to do, over what he'd done, over what the Graystone had ordered him to do. The killing had started with the death of Kethrenan Kanan, the Speaker's brother, fifty years earlier. Miral had commanded, through magic, the human brigands who had attacked Kethrenan and his wife, Elansa, and while Miral had not wielded the swords that had struck Kethrenan down, it was his deed, born of jealousy.

  That had been the first time he had sought to influence humans. And the last. They'd been too unpredictable to suit him. Originally, he had told them to slay Elansa as well. Instead, he had arrived in time to see her lying unconscious in the road as the brigands argued over who would get to murder her. Caught by a sudden upsurge of feeling that had taken him by surprise, he had ordered them to return Elansa's steel pendant to her neck and to leave her.

  He knew, of course, all about the Graystone, that it was capable of great good—and great evil. Since his childhood, he had felt the same pendulumlike swing within himself. Within one body was the person who could order the death of one elf, then befriend the child of that elf's ravaged wife. Then kill that child when he grew up.

  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 gob
let 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.

  Chapter 31

  The Murderer Confronted

  Miral stood stock-still as the gray-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 robe 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 Solostaran 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. Can 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 Laurana 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."

  "Ah, well," he said, and touched torch to debris.

  Flames roared.

  * * * * *

  Miral raced along the second balcony, his goal the spiral stairs to the main level. Gilthanas had spent far too much time in the corridor. Something was not going according to the mage's plan. He raged with the injustice.

  As he reached the door to the stairwell, he heard expressions of horror ripple through the onlookers, and he turned back.

  "Porthios enters armed!"

  "What?"

  "The Kentommen youth is never armed!"

  "What does this portend?"

  Solostaran was pallid as he gazed at the figure he believed was his son and heir, but his self-possession never faltered. "Porthios," he ordered. "Tell me what this means."

  "There is a murderer in the Tower," Tanis cried, sweeping the hood back from his face.

  More expressions of shock burst from the nobles as the crowd involuntarily parted and Tanis bounded through, his sword at the ready. With one leap, he was upon the rostrum, standing before Solostaran.

  "Tanthalas!" Miral exclaimed from above. "But you're dead!"

  The youth whirled to face the mage. Tanis's gaze caught Miral's, and the mage saw pain flare within the youth. "How do you know, mage?" he demanded.

  "Guards!" Tyresian thundered.

  Tanis held up his sword, Elansa's amulet glittering like a small sun. "The mage has twice killed, and he seeks to slay still more today." He pointed the sword at Miral.

  Miral fought back a laugh at the chaos below him. What better time to unleash his final spell? He began to chant.

  "By the gods," Tyresian barked. "The half-elf has lost his mind. And so has the mage. Guards!"

  "Tanis, where is Porthios?" came Laurana's shrill cry. "And Gilthan
as?"

  Tanis had no time to reply. He was dashing through the nobles to the stairwell. Black-garbed ceremonial guards poured into the Tower but didn't immediately realize that the half-elf was the one Tyresian wanted them to capture. Tanis slipped through, threw open the door to the stairway, and took the steps three at a time.

  As though the words pounded in his brain, Tanis could hear Miral continue his chanting. Above, the top of the Tower creaked.

  Suddenly, Eld Ailea appeared before him on the stairs.

  Tanis spun to a halt against the wall of the first landing. "Ailea!" he cried. "You're not dead." She looked down at him and smiled.

  Then suddenly, she was not Ailea, but Xenoth, laughing loudly and pointing derisively at the half-elf. Tanis held his sword before him and struggled to overcome the panic within him.

  Xenoth turned into a middle-aged elf man with a slender face and eyes of purest blue. His arm supported a pallid woman with long, curly hair the color of wheat and eyes as brown as the earth. She looked at Tanis, raised one weak hand, and whispered, "Tanthalas, my son."

  Tanis stood motionless, feeling his heart thunder. The agony of the moment tore into him. Then he wrenched away, shouted, "This is magic!" and the two figures vanished into shimmering air.

  He pushed through the spot where they had stood; cold fingers of air brushed against his arm as he pounded past.

  "Miral!" he cried, bursting onto the second balcony.

  Three chunks of tile burst from the mosaic and plummeted into the teeming mass of elves. A thin crack rent the top of the Tower.

  At that moment, with a crash of thunder, Flint and Fleet-foot appeared on the rostrum.

  "Arelas!" the dwarf called. His voice reverberated. "Arelas Kanan!" He pointed his hammer at the mage.

  Miral's chant slowed and stopped. Hands above his head, sweat starting from his palms, he held the spell and looked down at Flint. Suddenly, there was no noise in the Tower but tiny "pings" as bits of tile showered down from the double mosaic. The smell of rock and plaster was in the air.