by Jack Conner
The captain removed her winged helmet and shimmering blond hair cascaded around her shoulders. Her sparkling eyes looked warmly on the prince.
“I would say good-bye. Or, until our paths cross once more.”
“I’m sure they shall,” Baleron told her.
Shelir smiled, apparently happy to see that in his eyes he did not think them finished with each other. Quickly she replaced her helmet and led the serathin back into the air. They flew in a graceful formation over the heads of the human army, saying farewell, then ascended and became small white figures climbing the blue skies far above.
Baleron’s eyes followed Shelir for a long time, then looked down to his father. The king was regarding him strangely—him and Lunir.
“Interesting mount,” commented Lord Grothgar.
“Thank you. I think I’ll keep him. Why is Rolenya staying?”
The king suddenly grew deadly serious, and in a troubled tone, he said, “I won’t tell you that now. Not here. Wait until we get home, where we have some privacy, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Reluctantly, Baleron nodded.
Albrech turned to his troops: “Gear up, men, we’re going home!”
Felias knocked on the door of Rolenya’s suite and heard her sob, “Come in.”
Hesitantly, he entered. His retainers waited in the hall. He squinted, searching the gloom of the plush chamber; not even a candle was lit. At last, by the vague light of a curtained window, he discerned her shape. She was looking up from where she crouched in a corner of the living room, crying into her hands. It had been many hours since the Havensrike host had departed, and it concerned him that she was still so upset.
“There you are,” he said. “I came to escort you to dinner.”
His concern deepened when he saw her racking sobs, and he hurried over to her. Squatting, he squeezed her upper arm. “Oh, Rolenya, I know it’s difficult. I know it was a lot to lay on your shoulders all at once, and probably the wrong time to do it, but it needed to be done. You needed to find out who you are.”
Her beautiful, tear-stained face tilted up to look at him. “Who am I?”
He smiled gently and cupped her head in his strong hand. “Why, Rolenya, you’re my daughter.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” He smiled kindly. “I can’t tell you how hard it was to pretend otherwise. When I heard you were engaged to be married, and to a mortal—!” He shook his head ruefully. “Your ... ah, King Grothgar was not supposed to have done that. I was livid. I even had a plan in place to steal you away at your wedding. Thank Brunril that did not come to pass; King Grothgar would have declared war on me at once.” He chuckled. “But now you’re here, and you’re among your own kind at last. You’re safe.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “But you are not,” she said.
“What?” Alarm gathered in him.
Her eyes flashed yellow. Like a wolf’s.
Before he could call out, she lunged for his throat.
Chapter 3
Baleron shivered.
Warm sunlight fell on him, but the high cold wind poured a chill into his bones. He rode Lunir through the waning blue of the sky while the host of Havensrike plodded along below. Afoot now that most of their mounts had died in the eruption of Oksil, and the elves had not had enough spare horseflesh to give them, the army moved sluggishly. Ahead stood an elvish town, so snugly nestled among a forest-garden that it was at first hard to discern. Yet slowly its white towers slid into view, and Baleron was relieved. Hopefully his father could secure horses there for the men, and they could return more swiftly to Glorifel.
As he flew, he brooded on the matter of Rolenya. Why had she stayed at Celievsti? Why had she insisted on referring to Albrech as his father, not theirs?
Surely it wasn’t so, he thought. Surely Rolenya was not ...
And yet ... it all fit, didn’t it? Her singing, her sense of Grace, her beauty, her glow. Her Light ...
It fit too well.
No, it can’t be. The sister he’d known and loved all his life couldn’t have been a lie, surely. But that wasn’t right either, he knew. Rolenya was Rolenya. She had never lied to him, never been false. Surely she had not found out the truth until just recently. And yet his mind and heart burned with anguish. He had been deceived his whole life. As had she.
The thoughts drove him into a frenzy.
Suddenly he tugged on Lunir’s reins and steered the glarum west, back toward the White Tower. He saw men stirring below, pointing up at him, but he ignored them. He would see Rolenya again, would look into her eyes and find out from her lips what this all meant. Let his father and the host wonder where he’d gone. His father had lied to him, had raised him on a lie, he knew that now. Let him suffer for it. Baleron would be back.
He winged his way west, the wind scouring his face, and the white line of Celievsti grew larger and larger against the blue.
The Lord of the Larenth, hero of a million tales, opened his mouth to scream, but too late. His own daughter, or something very much like her, fell on him and tore out his throat with wolf-like teeth. He slumped back, dying, face locked in an expression of shock.
Rolenya, too, seemed surprised. “The Elf King,” she whispered, “is no more.” She voice rang with awe.
And suddenly she laughed. “His heart!” she said. “I must have his heart.”
She tore into his chest, cracking his ribs wide open, ripped the heart free and gobbled it down greedily. It was still warm, and its blood filled her mouth and throat with heat, with power. Sated, the blood trickling down her chin, she slumped back, a lazy smile on her face.
The Elf Lord’s blood coursed through her veins, burning, giving her strength, and she moaned in pleasure. Never had she expected to feel such power. The power pained her, though. Burned her. It was so full of Light. If she had been weaker, Felias’s blood would have killed her outright. But she was strong, and though the pain was terrible it made her even stronger.
At last she rose to her bare feet, nearly trembling, and slipped off the clinging nightgown. She made her way to the bathroom and washed off the Elf Lord’s blood in the marble bathtub. Once there, she took the opportunity to enjoy her body. She luxuriated in the feel of the hot soapy water against her tender flesh, so easily aroused, so quick to pleasure. It was such a delicate body, so different from those the spirit had possessed before.
Afterwards, she dressed and quit the room. Upon finding the king’s retainers without, she said, “The king will not be attending dinner tonight. We’ve had a long talk and he’s a bit ... tired.”
“We will wait here for him, Princess.”
“It could be some time. Tell me, is Master Elethris already dining?”
“No,” he said. “He’s still in his rooms, awaiting word that you’re ready.”
“Very well. I think I’ll let him know myself.”
They bowed and Rolenya departed, slinking down one hallway, then the next. This place was a virtual maze! Why did all sorcerers feel compelled to turn their homes into wonderlands? Ungier had been the same way. And, of course, the Master ... no place could be more fantastic than Ghrastigor, not to mention Illistriv. Ah, home!
She paused before a certain door and knocked upon it. The door drew back and the face of an elf appeared there.
He smiled when he saw Rolenya and bowed his head. It was not the bow of an elf to his princess, but an Oslogon thrall to its lord.
“It is time,” Rolenya told him.
Desryn, or rather the spirit that possessed him, nodded. Fear and excitement shone in his eyes. “So soon?” he asked.
Rolenya snorted. “It has been thousands of years.”
The elf bowed again, nervously. “Of course, my lord.”
Rolenya glared at him, then looked up and down the hallway to see if anyone might have heard. “Do not call me that, you fool, not here, not now, when we are so close.” She patted Desryn’s shoulder. “Prepare yourself, and alert the other one.”
“Of course, my ... ah, my lady.”
Rolenya left Desryn’s possessor and continued on. Anxiety built up in her, but she suppressed the emotion. Can I truly do this? Can I truly destroy one as powerful as Elethris?
She reached a grand staircase and ascended. Elethris’s suite occupied the topmost floors of the tower. She found the elaborately carved door and knocked upon it. Shortly, a white-dressed servant opened it and waved her in. “Please come in, my lady,” the elf maid said. “Do you wish a word with the Lord of the Tower?”
“I do.”
The girl showed her princess across the spacious foyer and up another flight of stairs, then down a hallway and into a large warm room filled with rows of books: Elethris’s personal library. The ancient sorcerer himself was perusing a certain row, and he looked up at Rolenya’s arrival.
“Well, good evening, Princess,” he said. “I was not expecting you.”
She smiled in what she knew to be a most charming way. Few men could resist that smile, including two of the three elves who had cared for Celievsti in Elethris’s absence (Desryn having been one of the two). She could see the smile worked on him now.
“I thought I’d visit before dinner,” she told him. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” He turned to his servant and said, “You can leave us now.” She bowed and left. Elethris returned his attention to the princess. “My dear, you are looking lovely. The truth of your heritage seems to agree with you.”
“Why, thank you.” She tried to affect a blush.
“Come here, let me show you something.”
She approached him as he plucked out a certain book. This is it, she thought, suddenly nervous again. Elethris was a mighty foe indeed. The trick lay in utter surprise.
Elethris was leafing through a thick book, every now and then displaying a chapter heading to her. “This volume gives a detailed history of elf princesses and their relation to—”
She jerked the elf around to face her. Even as she did, her mouth grew into a wolf-like snout and snapped at Elethris’s throat.
Elethris was swift. With a startled cry, he broke her grip. Leapt back, eyes wide. The book dropped forgotten to the floor. “Rolenya!” he cried.
She lunged for him, cursing herself. Too slow! Too slow!
Steel came to his eyes. He waved his hand, and it was as though a powerful wind struck her, hurled her back. She struck the carpeted ground, slid, and smashed against a bookshelf.
Groaning, she rose to her feet. I’ve failed.
No. She would not allow failure.
She slipped to all fours, became the wolf-like creature she knew so well, and bounded toward Elethris, growling.
Elethris stabbed his hand toward it. White energy flashed out. Fire suffused what had been Rolenya. The being screamed in pain and collapsed to the floor. The stench of burnt fur and flesh filled its keen nostrils. Agony gripped it, and it writhed about, almost senseless.
No, it thought. No! I WILL NOT FAIL.
It picked itself up, looked about.
Elethris was striding over warily.
It barreled toward him. Evidently surprised, he raised his hands again. More white-hot burning pain filled the wolf. It felt its own body burn and wither. Had it not been for the power in Felias’s blood, it would have fallen right then.
It charged on.
“No!” cried Elethris, panicked now.
He hurled another flash. Agony suffused the wolf, and its flesh and bones burned. Only its total devotion to its Master kept it going.
Elethris stumbled back. Too late.
The wolf lunged. It clamped Elethris’s throat between burning jaws—and bit. It tore out the elf’s throat, let the elf’s powerful blood fill it, make it stronger. Slowly the fires died. The agony washed away. Elethris’s blood filled the wolf, strengthening it, soothing it. Its wounds began to heal. Only then did it slump back, gasping, and return to Rolenya’s form.
Elethris, dying, throat open, lay sprawled upon the floor in a pool of his own spreading blood, gazing up at Rolenya with uncomprehending shock.
She smiled lazily and wiped the blood from her lips. “You, none of you, ever bothered to examine me, just as Master said,” she told him in his dying moments. “Not the princess, oh no. Not the lovely princess, daughter to both Houses. Fools!” she hissed angrily. “Didn’t you wonder why we let you escape Oksil?”
Elethris’s eyes dimmed, and he was gone. At his passing, the tower rumbled. The books shook in their shelves. The very air vibrated. But this was only the beginning.
Wearily, still pained, she rose to her feet. She realized she was naked and covered with blood. Difficult to go on from here in this condition without attracting attention.
She could depart from one of Elethris’s terraces, she knew, simply fly away. But she wanted to see the destruction she had brought about.
The problem was solved a moment later when Elethris’s assistant, the girl that had let Rolenya in, ran toward the scene of the battle, crying out in dismay. She must have heard the fight and felt the tremors, as she looked frightened and was already crying.
“What’s happened?” she sobbed, as she neared Elethris’s body and the naked form of Rolenya, breathing heavily and covered in gore.
“I did,” Rolenya said.
Afterwards she took the girl’s clothes for herself. Then, having caught her breath, she stole through the library until she reached a certain pedestal. Perched on it was a fat and ancient book, bound to the pedestal with a chain and, likely, many unseen devices. Most were rendered inoperative now with Elethris’s demise, and the ones that were not Rolenya overcame easily with the knowledge she had gained from seducing his lieutenants.
The spells that bound the tower were likewise rendered inert. Its Lord and Lady were dead. Now it would join them.
The floor vibrated under Rolenya’s dainty feet; Celievsti shook as with an earthquake. Without Elethris’s power to keep it aloft, it would fall. Oh, the other sorcerers and apprentices might have managed to hold it together if they’d been left alone, but during the last few days Rolenya had already Bitten two of the most powerful ones while she lay in their beds, and she had poured into them two of the spirits her Master had entwined with hers and placed at her command. Rolenya’s true soul, her possessor knew, had been cast into Illistriv some weeks before.
The surviving yllimmi were even now turning on each other, the princess’s two converts acting on the signal of Elethris’s death. She could hear their battle below, like claps of thunder echoing through the halls. Nothing could stop the White Tower’s fall.
She ripped the book free and left the library. Descending the stairs, she saw Captain Shelir enter the suite with a look of terror on her face. “Elethris! Elethris! What goes on?”
Around them, the tower rumbled and shook. Dust drifted down from the ceiling. A column cracked. A fissure appeared right between the elf’s feet and she danced aside.
Her eyes found Rolenya and noted the blood and strange attire. Confused and wary, the serathin captain drew her sword and said, “Stay right there, Princess. I don’t want to hurt you, but until I know—“
Rolenya extended her hand and the sword tore itself loose from Shelir’s grip and sailed through the air to imbed itself in a wall. It quivered there, warbling. Rolenya, drunk on Elethris’s blood, turned herself into the form of a vampire and leapt from the balustrade. Her bat-like wings caught the air. She floated swiftly down.
Shelir screamed. Tried to dodge aside.
Rolenya pounced on her. Pinned her to floor. Shelir wriggled and thrashed. That only delighted the princess’s possessor more.
She crouched over the warrior-maid and sank her fangs into the elf’s throat. Greedily, she sucked Shelir’s blood. She did not need it, of course. She was not a true vampire. But she drew strength from taking the elf’s life nonetheless. The Children of Light were beings of power, and they carried that power in their veins.
Shelir fough
t her attacker, but soon she grew too weak to resist.
Rolenya grabbed Shelir’s blond hair with her free claw and jerked the elf partially upright so that their eyes were level. Shelir’s suddenly dim gaze was full of fear and confusion.
“How is my brother beneath the furs?” asked Rolenya.
Shelir gazed at her in horror. “Wha—?” she gasped weakly. “What are—?“
“No matter,” said Rolenya. “I will know before long.”
She drank the swan rider’s life. Satisfied, she dropped the graceful body and assumed Rolenya’s form once more, though now she was drenched in blood again and her wet garment clung to her like a second skin. She did not bother changing again. She left the suite and descended to see the terror her actions had unleashed, and was not disappointed. Elves ran through the halls, screaming and panicking as cracks split the floors and the White Tower trembled all around. Sorcerers battled each other furiously, and bodies lay everywhere.
Gratified, the false Rolenya made her way to a middle terrace, where a serathi was trying to load a group of servants onto a swan.
“Excuse me,” she said. They all turned to regard their princess, gaping at her bloody appearance. Smiling, she said, “Give that Swan to me.”
Such was the force of her command that they obeyed unquestioningly.
“But, Princess ...” muttered the swan rider as the Rolenya-thing mounted the steed.
“Yes?”
“Do you mean to go alone, not to take anyone with you?”
“Yes. I do.
“Ra!” she shouted, and the swan lifted off from the terrace and took to the night skies.
She wanted people to see her escape on the swan, to delay suspicion for the time being. The rider and the people he was trying to save watched her depart fearfully. They were doomed and they knew it.
Behind Rolenya, Celievsti trembled and cracked and began to fall apart. Huge slabs tore away and tumbled to the ground. Some smashed into the riverbed and dammed it up. Others cratered the earth, throwing up geysers of dirt and rock that became clouds.
When the princess was a mile away, she turned her whipping black head back to see the massive tower, a white spire that stretched halfway to the clouds, collapse utterly. It snapped off from its base and, listing, fell sideways to a ground far, far below. It seemed to fall forever, but at last it smote the land with a terrific roar. A cloud of pulverized earth and stone and alabaster and marble rose up, obscuring the sky.