The Qualinesti

by Paul B. Thompson

  Kith-Kanan’s brows arched. “Are you mortal?”

  “Does it matter? I can help you. Your son has offended you, and you want to know what to do about it... yes? You are Speaker of the Sun. Condemn him,” Dru said smoothly.

  “He is my only son.”

  “And yet you might have another, if you marry again. For a slight fee, I can procure for you the mate of your heart’s desire!” He smiled, revealing teeth as red as his hair. Kith-Kanan recoiled and moved quickly back to the rostrum, where the potent magic symbols set in the floor mosaic would protect him from evil spells.

  “I will not bargain with an evil spirit,” he exclaimed. “Begone! Trouble me no more!”

  The red elf laughed, the loud peals echoing weirdly in the black, empty tower. “Our bargain has already commenced, Great Speaker.”

  Kith-Kanan was confused. Already commenced? Had he somehow summoned this odd being from the netherworld?

  “Of course you did,” Dru said, reading his thoughts. “I’m a busy fellow. I don’t waste my valuable time appearing to just anyone. Here, son of Sithel. Let me demonstrate what I can do.”

  Dru brought his white hands together with a loud clap. Kith-Kanan felt a breeze rush by him, as if all the air in the tower gusted toward the strange elf. With a crackling hiss, a ball of fire appeared suddenly between Dru’s palms, and he flung it to the floor, where it burst. The loud crack and blinding flash caused Kith-Kanan to stagger back. When his vision cleared, he beheld a transformed scene.

  Kith-Kanan no longer stood in the Tower of the Sun, though its rostrum was still solid beneath his feet. His surroundings were those of a smaller tower. By the stonework and the shape of the windows, he knew that it was in Silvanost. Tapestries in shades of pale green and blue hung on the walls, depicting woodland scenes and elegantly clad ladies. Sunlight filled the room.

  A sigh caught his ears. He turned and saw a large, heavy wooden chair, its back to him, facing an open window. Someone was sitting in the chair. Kith-Kanan couldn’t see who.

  Suddenly the someone stood. Kith-Kanan glimpsed her beautiful red hair and his breath caught.

  “Hermathya,” he whispered.

  “She cannot see or hear us,” Dru informed him. “You see how she languishes in Silvanost, unloved and unloving. I can have her at your side in the blink of any eye.”

  Hermathya... the love of his youth. For many years the wife of his twin brother, Sithas. She stared straight through the spot where Kith-Kanan stood, piercing him unknowingly with her deep blue eyes. Her red-gold hair was piled up on her head in elaborate braids, showing the elegant shape of her upswept ears, and she wore a gown of the finest spider’s web gold, thin and clinging. Once he had proposed marriage to her, but his father, not knowing of their love, had betrothed her to Kith-Kanan’s twin, Sithas. So much time had passed since that distant day. Now Sithas was leader of the Silvanesti elves, as Kith-Kanan ruled the Qualinesti.

  Lonely and a bit self-pitying, Kith-Kanan felt himself sorely tempted. Always Hermathya’s great beauty had been able to arouse him. An elf would have to be made of stone not to feel something in her presence.

  Just as he was about to ask Dru his terms, Hermathya turned away. She lunged at the open window before her chair. Kith-Kanan cried out and reached for her.

  Before she could hurtle through the high window, Hermathya was brought up short. The harsh clank of metal shocked Kith-Kanan. Beneath the hem of her golden gown, he spied an iron fetter, locked about her right ankle and attached by a chain to the heavy chair. The chair was fastened to the floor. Though the fetter was lined with padded cloth, it gripped Hermathya’s slender ankle tightly.

  “What does this mean?” demanded Kith-Kanan.

  Dru seemed vexed. “A minor problem, Great Speaker. The lady Hermathya suffers from despondency over the crippling of her son during the war and, I might add, over the loss of your love. The Speaker of the Stars has ordered her chained so that she won’t harm herself.”

  Hermathya had been staring with palpable longing at the open window. Her face was as exquisitely lovely as Kith-Kanan remembered it. The high cheekbones, the delicately slender nose, and skin as smooth as the finest silk. Time hadn’t marked her at all. Once more her faint sigh came to him, a sound full of sorrow and yearning. Kith-Kanan squeezed his eyes shut. “Take me away,” he hissed. “I cannot bear to see this.”

  “As you wish.”

  The dark embrace of the Tower of the Sun in Qualinost returned.

  Kith-Kanan shuddered. Hermathya had been out of his thoughts, and out of his heart, for centuries.

  The break between him and his twin brother had been widened by the passion Kith-Kanan had felt for Hermathya. Time and other loves had practically extinguished the old fire. Why did he feel such longing for her now?

  “Old wounds are the deepest and the hardest to heal,” said Dru, once more answering Kith’s thoughts.

  “I don’t believe any of this,” the Speaker snapped. “You created that scene with your magic to deceive me.”

  Dru sighed loudly and circled the rostrum, his yellow aura moving with him. “Ah, such lack of faith,” Dru said sardonically. “All I offered was true. The lady can be yours again if you meet my terms.”

  Kith-Kanan folded his arms. “Which are what?”

  The red elf pressed his hands together prayerfully, but the expression on his face was anything but pious. “Permit the passage of slave caravans from Ergoth and Silvanesti through your realm,” he said quickly.

  “Never!” Kith-Kanan strode toward Dru, who did not retreat. The strange elf’s yellow aura stopped the Speaker’s advance. When he, reached out to touch the golden shell, he snatched his fingers back as if they’d been burned. But the glow was bizarrely, intensely cold.

  “You are brave,” Dru mused, “but do not try to lay hands on me again.”

  At that moment, Kith-Kanan realized who Dru really was, and for one of the few times in his life, he was truly frightened.

  “I know you,” he said in a voice that wavered, though he fought to keep it steady. “You are the one who corrupts those beset by adversity.” Almost too softly to be heard, he added, “Hiddukel.”

  The God of Evil Bargains, whose sacred color was red, bowed. “You are tiresome in your virtues,” he remarked. “Is there nothing you want? I can fill this tower twenty times with gold or silver or jewels. What do you say to that?” His red eyebrows rose questioningly.

  “Treasure will not solve my problems.”

  “Think of the good you could do with it all.” Hiddukel’s voice dripped with malicious sarcasm.

  “You could buy all the slaves in the world and set them free.”

  Kith-Kanan backed away toward the rostrum. It was his safe haven, where not even the evil god’s magic could reach him. “Why do you concern yourself with the slave trade, Lord of the Broken Scales?” he asked.

  The god’s elven form shrugged. “I concern myself with all such commerce. I am the patron deity of slavers.”

  The stone of the rostrum bumped against Kith-Kanan’s heels. Confidently he climbed backward onto it. “I refuse all your offers, Hiddukel,” he declared. “Go away, and trouble me no further.”

  The look of malign enjoyment left the red-garbed elf’s face. Addressed by his true name, he had no choice but to depart. His pointed features twisted into a hateful grimace.

  “Your troubles will increase, Speaker of the Sun,” the God of Demons spat. “That which you have created will come forth to strike you down. The hammer shall break the anvil. Lightning shall cleave the rock!”

  “Go!” Kith-Kanan cried, his heart pounding in his throat. The single syllable reverberated in the air.

  Hiddukel backed away a pace and spun on one toe. His cape swirled around like a flame. Faster and faster the god whirled, until his elven form vanished, replaced by a whirling column of red smoke and fire. Kith-Kanan threw up an arm to shield his face from the virulent display. The voice of Hiddukel boomed in his head.


  “The time of wonders is at hand, foolish king! Forces older than the gods surround you! Only the power of the Queen of Darkness can withstand them! Beware!”

  The fiery specter of Hiddukel flew apart, and in two heartbeats, the Tower of the Sun was quiet once more. The deep darkness that filled it remained, however. Sweating and shaking from his near escape from the Collector of Souls, Kith-Kanan sank to the floor. His body was wracked with spasms he could not control. A jumble of thoughts and images warred inside his brain – Ulvian, Hermathya, Suzine, Verhanna, his brother Sithas – all surmounted by the leering visage of Hiddukel. He felt as if his soul was the object of a deadly tug-of-war.

  Kith-Kanan’s entire body ached. He was limp, worn out, exhausted. Rest was what he craved. He must rest. His eyelids fluttered closed.

  *

  “Sire? Speaker?” called a faint voice.

  Kith-Kanan pushed himself up on his hands. “Who is it?” he replied hoarsely, brushing hair from his eyes.

  A glow appeared from the entry hall. This time it was the mundane light of a lamp in the hands of his castellan.

  “I’m here, Tam.”

  “Great Speaker, are you well? We could not reach you, and – and the whole city has been plunged into darkness! The people are terrified!”

  Concentrating his strength, Kith-Kanan struggled to his feet. Behind the agitated Tamanier were several silent Guards of the Sun. Their usual jaunty posture was gone, replaced by an attitude of tense fear.

  “What do you mean?” the Speaker demanded shakily. “How long have I been in here? Is it night?”

  Tamanier came closer. His face was white and drawn. “Sire, it is barely noon! Not long after you entered the tower to meditate, a curtain of blackness descended on the city. I came at once to inform you, but the tower doors were barred by invisible forces! We were frantic. Suddenly, only a few moments ago, they swung wide.”

  Kith-Kanan adjusted his rumpled clothing and combed his hair back with his fingers. His mind was racing. The tower seemed normal, except for the darkness cloaking it. There was no trace of Hiddukel. He took a deep, restoring breath and said, “Come. We will see what the situation is and then calm the people.”

  They went to the entrance, Kith-Kanan striding as purposefully as his nerves and throbbing muscles would allow. Tamanier hurried along with the lamp. The guards at the door presented arms and waited dutifully for the Speaker to pass. The great doors stood open.

  Kith-Kanan paused, his feet on the broad granite sill. The gloom beyond was intense, far denser than ordinary night. In spite of the torches carried by Tamanier Ambrodel and several warriors, Kith-Kanan could barely see to the bottom of the tower steps. The torchlight seemed muffled by the jet-black fog. There were no lights to be seen in the gloom, though from this high vantage point, all of Qualinost should be spread out before him. Overhead, no stars or moons were visible.

  “You say this happened just after I entered the tower?” he asked tensely.

  “Yes, sire,” replied the castellan.

  Kith-Kanan nodded. Was this some spell of Hiddukel’s, to coerce him into accepting the god’s vile bargain? No, not likely. The Lord of the Broken Scales was a deceiver, not an extorter. Hiddukel’s victims damned themselves. Their torment was thus sweeter to the wicked god.

  “It’s very strange,” Kith-Kanan said in his best royal manner. “Still, it doesn’t seem dangerous, merely frightening. Is the prisoner still in Arcuballis Tower?” No need to bandy the prince’s name about.

  One of the guards stepped forward. “I can answer that, sire. I was at the tower myself when the blackness fell. Lieutenant Merithynos thought it might be part of a plot to free his prisoner. No such attempt was made, however, Highness.”

  “This is no mortal’s spell,” remarked Kith-Kanan. He swept a hand. through the murk, half expecting it to stain his skin. It didn’t. The gloom that looked so solid felt completely insubstantial, not even damp like a normal fog.

  “Tell Merithynos to bring his prisoner to my house,” Kith-Kanan ordered briskly. “Keep him sequestered there until I return.”

  “Where are you going, sire?” asked Tamanier, confused and unsure.

  “Among my people, to reassure them.”

  With no escort and bearing his own torch, Kith-Kanan left the Tower of the Sun. For the next several hours, he walked the streets of his capital, meeting common folk and nobles alike. Fear had thickened the air as surely as the weird gloom. When word spread that Kith-Kanan was in the streets, the people came out of the towers and temples to see him and to hear his calming words.

  “Oh, Great Speaker,” lamented a young elf woman. “The blackness smothers me. I cannot breathe!”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s good air,” he assured her. “Can’t you smell the flowers in the gardens of Mantis?” His temple was close by. The aroma of the hundreds of blooming roses that surrounded it scented the still air.

  The elf woman inhaled with effort, but her face cleared somewhat as she did. “Yes, sire,” she said more calmly. “Yes... I can smell them.”

  “Mantis would not waste his perfume in suffocating air,” said the Speaker kindly. “It’s fear that chokes you. Stay here by the gardens until you feel better.”

  He left her and moved on, trailed by a large crowd of worried citizens. Their pale faces moved in and out of the gloom, barely lit by the scores of blazing brands that had sprouted from every window and in every hand. Where the avenue from the Tower of the Sun joined the street that curved northwest to the tower keep called Sithel, Kith-Kanan found a band of crafters and temple acolytes debating in loud, angry voices. He stepped between the factions and asked them why they were arguing.

  “It’s the end of the world!” declared a human man, a coppersmith by the look of the snips and pliers dangling from his oily leather vest. “The gods have abandoned us.”

  “Nonsense!” spat an acolyte of Astra, the patron god of the elves. “This is merely some strange quirk of the weather. It will pass.”

  “Weather? Black as pitch at noon?” exclaimed the coppersmith. His companions – a mix of elves and humans, all metal crafters – loudly supported him.

  “You should heed the learned priest,” Kith-Kanan said firmly. “He is versed in these matters. If the gods wanted to destroy the world, they wouldn’t wrap us in a blanket of night. They’d use fire and flood and shake the ground. Don’t you agree?”

  The smith hardly wanted to contradict his sovereign, but he said sullenly, “Then why don’t they do something about it?” He gestured to the half-dozen young clerics facing him.

  “Have you tried?” Kith-Kanan asked the acolyte of Astra.

  The cleric frowned. “None of our banishing spells worked, Highness. The darkness is not caused by mortal or divine magic,” he said. The other clerics behind him murmured their agreement.

  “How long do you think it will last?”

  The young elf could only shrug helplessly.

  The coppersmith snorted, and Kith-Kanan turned to him. “You ought to be grateful, my friend, for this darkness.”

  That caught the fellow off guard. “Grateful, Majesty?”

  “It’s pitch-black on a working day. I’d say you have a holiday.” The crafters laughed nervously. “If I were you, I’d hie on over to the nearest tavern and celebrate your good fortune!” A broad grin brightened the coppersmith’s face, and the disputants began to disperse.

  Kith-Kanan continued on his way. Passing a side street on his right, he halted when he heard weeping coming from the dim alley.

  The Speaker turned into the side street, following the sound of sobbing. Suddenly a hand reached out of the dark and pressed against his chest, stopping him.

  “Who are you?” he said sharply, thrusting the torch toward the one who’d halted him.

  “I live here. Gusar is my name.”

  The weak torchlight showed Kith-Kanan an old human, bald and white-browed. Gusar’s eyes were white, too. Cataracts had taken hi
s sight.

  “Someone is in trouble down there,” said the Speaker, relieved. An old blind man was hardly a threat.

  “I know. I was going to help when you blundered up behind me.”

  Kith-Kanan bristled at the man’s bluntness. “Get that brand out of my face, and I’ll be on my way,” the blind man continued.

  The monarch of Qualinesti drew his torch back. Gusar moved off with the easy confidence of one used to darkness. Kith-Kanan trailed silently behind the blind man. In short order, they came upon a trio of elf children huddled by the closed door of a tower home.

  “Hello,” Gusar said cheerfully. “Is someone crying?”

  “We can’t find our house,” wailed an elf girl. “We looked and looked, but we couldn’t see the daisies that grow by our door!”

  “Daisies, eh? I know that house. It’s only a few steps more. I’ll take you there.” Gusar extended a gnarled hand. The elf children regarded him with misgiving.

  “Are you a troll?” asked the smallest boy, his blue eyes huge in his tiny face.

  Gusar cackled. “No. I’m just an old, blind man.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “My friend has a torch to help light your way.”

  Kith-Kanan was surprised. He hadn’t realized the old man knew he was still there.

  The girl who’d spoken got up first and took the human’s hand. The two boys followed their sister, and together the children and the old human wandered down the lane. Kith-Kanan followed at a distance, until the little girl turned and announced, “We don’t need you, sir. The old one can see us home.”

  “Fare you well, then,” Kith-Kanan called. The bowed back of the aged human and the flaxen hair of the elf children quickly vanished in the inky air.

  For the first time in days, the Speaker smiled. His dream of a nation where all races could live in peace was truly taking hold when three children of pure Silvanesti blood could fearlessly take the hand of a gnarled old human and let him lead them home.