“Who are you, sir?” Silvan asked, dazzled.
“My name is Glaucous,” said the elf, bowing low. “I have been named regent to aid you in the coming days. If General Konnal approves, I will make arrangements for your coronation to be held tomorrow. The people have waited long years for this joyful day. We will not make them wait longer.”
Silvan lay in bed, a bed that had once belonged to his grandfather, Lorac. The bedposts were made of gold and of silver twined together to resemble vines, decorated with flowers formed of sparkling jewels. Fine sheets scented with lavender covered the mattress that was stuffed with swan’s down. A silken coverlet of scarlet kept the night’s chill from him. The ceiling above him was crystal. He could lie in his bed and give audience every night to the moon and the stars, come to pay homage.
Silvanoshei laughed softly to himself for the delight of it all. He thought that he should pinch his flesh to wake himself from this wonderful dream, but he decided not to risk it. If he were dreaming, let him never wake. Let him never wake to find himself shivering in some dank cave, eating dried berries and waybread, drinking brackish water. Let him never wake to see elf warriors drop dead at his feet, pierced by ogre arrows. Let him never wake. Let this dream last the remainder of his life.
He was hungry, wonderfully hungry, a hunger he could enjoy because he knew it would be satiated. He imagined what he would order for breakfast. Honeyed cakes, perhaps. Sugared rose petals. Cream laced with nutmeg and cinnamon. He could have anything he wanted, and if he didn’t like it, he would send it away and ask for something else.
Reaching out his hand lazily for the silver bell that stood on an ornate gold and silver nightstand, Silvanoshei rang for his servants. He lay back to await the deluge of elf attendants to flood the room, wash him out of his bed to be bathed and dressed and combed and brushed and perfumed and bejeweled, made ready for his coronation.
The face of Alhana Starbreeze, his mother’s face, came to Silvan’s mind. He wished her well, but this was his dream, a dream in which she had no part. He had succeeded where she had failed. He would make whole what she had broken.
“Your Majesty. Your Majesty. Your Majesty.”
The elves of House Servitor bowed low before him. He acknowledged them with a charming smile, allowed them to fluff up his pillows and smooth the coverlet. He sat up in bed and waited languidly to see what they would bring him for breakfast.
“Your Majesty,” said an elf who had been chosen by the Regent Glaucous to serve in the capacity of chamberlain, “Prince Kiryn waits without to pay you honor on this day.”
Silvanoshei turned from the mirror in which he’d been admiring his new finery. Seamstresses had worked all yesterday and all today in a frantic hurry to stitch the young king’s robes and cape he would wear for the ceremony.
“My cousin! Please, let him enter without delay.”
“Your Majesty should never say, ‘Please,’ the chamberlain chided with a smile. “When Your Majesty wants something done, speak it and it will be done.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you.” Silvan saw his second mistake and flushed. “I guess I’m not supposed to say, ‘Thank you’ either, am I?”
The chamberlain shook his head and departed. He returned with an elf youth, several years older than Silvan. They had met only briefly the day before. This was the first time they had been alone together. Both young men regarded each other intently, searching for some sign of relationship and, pleasing to both, finding it.
“How do you like all this, Cousin?” Kiryn asked, after the many niceties and polite nothings had been given and received. “Excuse me. I meant to say, ‘Your Majesty.’ ” He bowed.
“Please, call me ‘cousin,’ ” Silvan said warmly. “I never had a cousin before. That is, I never knew my cousin. He is the king of Qualinesti, you know. At least, that’s what they call him.”
“Your cousin Gilthas. The son of Lauralanthalasa and the half-human, Tanis. I know of him. Porthios spoke of him. He said that Speaker Gilthas was in poor health.”
“You needn’t be polite, Cousin. All of us know that he is melancholy mad. Not his fault, but there you have it. Is it proper for me to call you ‘cousin’?”
“Perhaps not in public, Your Majesty,” Kiryn replied with a smile. “As you may have noted, we in Silvanesti love formalities. But in private, I would be honored.” He paused a moment, then added quietly, “I heard of the deaths of your father and mother. I want to say how deeply grieved I am. I admired both of them very much.”
“Thank you,” Silvan said and, after a decent interval, he changed the subject. “To answer your earlier question, I must admit that I find all this rather daunting. Wonderful, but daunting. A month ago I was living in a cave and sleeping on the ground. Now I have this bed, this beautiful bed, a bed in which my grandfather slept. The Regent Glaucous arranged for the bed to be brought to this chamber, thinking it would please me. I have these clothes. I have whatever I want to eat and drink. It all seems a dream.”
Silvan turned back to regarding himself again in the mirror. He was enchanted with his new clothing, his new appearance. He was clean, his hair perfumed and brushed, his fingers adorned with jewels. He was not flea bitten, he was not stiff from sleeping with a rock for a pillow. He vowed, in his heart, never again. He did not notice that Kiryn appeared grave when Silvan spoke of the regent.
His cousin’s gravity deepened as Silvan continued speaking. “Talking of Glaucous, what an estimable man he is! I am quite pleased with him as regent. So polite and condescending. Asking my opinion about everything. At first, I don’t mind telling you, Cousin, I was a little put out at General Konnal for suggesting to the Heads of House that a regent be appointed to guide me until I am of age. I am already considered of age by Qualinesti standards, you see.”
Silvan’s expression hardened. “And I am determined not to be a puppet king like my poor cousin Gilthas. However, the Regent Glaucous gave me to understand that he will not be the ruler. He will be the person to smooth the way so that my wishes and commands are carried out.”
Kiryn was silent, made no answer. He looked around the room as if making up his mind to something. Drawing a step nearer Silvan, he said, in a low voice, “May I suggest that Your Majesty dismiss the servants?”
Silvan regarded Kiryn in troubled astonishment, suddenly wary, suspicious. Glaucous had told him that Kiryn himself had designs upon the throne. What if this were a ploy to catch him alone and helpless.…
Silvan looked at Kiryn, who was slender and delicate of build, with the soft, smooth hands of the scholar. Silvan compared his cousin to himself, whose body was hardened, well-muscled. Kiryn was unarmed. He could hardly represent a threat.
“Very well,” Silvan said and sent away the servants, who had been tidying the room and laying out the clothes he would wear at the formal dance given in his honor this evening.
“There, Cousin. We are alone. What is it you have to say to me?” Silvan’s voice and manner were cool.
“Your Majesty, Cousin,” Kiryn spoke earnestly, keeping his voice low, despite the fact that the two of them were alone in the large and echoing room, “I came here today with one fixed purpose and that is to warn you against this Glaucous.”
“Ah,” said Silvan, with a knowing air. “I see.”
“You don’t seem surprised, Your Majesty.”
“I am not, Cousin. Disappointed, I confess, but not surprised. Glaucous himself warned me that you might be jealous of both him and of me. He told me quite candidly that you seemed to dislike him. The feeling is not mutual. Glaucous speaks of you with the highest regard and is deeply saddened that the two of you cannot be friends.”
“I am afraid I cannot return the compliment,” Kiryn said. “The man is not worthy to be regent, Your Majesty. He is not of House Royal. He is … or was … a wizard who tended the Tower of Shalost. I know that my Uncle Konnal suggested him, but …”
He stopped talking, as if he found it difficult to proceed. “I tel
l you what I have never told anyone else, Your Majesty. I believe that Glaucous has some sort of strange hold upon my uncle.
“My uncle is a good man, Your Majesty. He fought bravely during the War of the Lance. He fought the dream alongside Porthios, your father. What he saw during those awful times has caused him to live in constant fear, unreasoning fear. He is terrified of the evil days returning. He believes that this shield will save the Silvanesti from the coming darkness. Glaucous controls the magic of the shield and through threats of lowering it, he controls my uncle. I would not want to see Glaucous control you in the same way.”
“Perhaps you think, Cousin, that I am already under his control. Perhaps you think that you would be a better Speaker of Stars?” Silvan asked with mounting anger.
“I could have been Speaker, Cousin,” Kiryn said with quiet dignity. “Glaucous sought to make me Speaker. I refused. I knew your mother and your father. I loved them both. The throne is yours by right. I would not usurp it.”
Silvan felt he deserved the rebuke. “Forgive me, Cousin. I spoke before my brain had time to guide my tongue. But I believe that you are mistaken about Glaucous. He has only the best interests of the Silvanesti at heart. The fact that he has risen to his high estate from a low one is to his credit and to the credit of your uncle for seeing his true worth and not being blinded by class as we elves have been in the past. My mother said often that we have harmed ourselves by keeping people of talent from fulfilling their true potential by judging a person only by birth and not by ability. One of my mother’s most trusted advisers was Samar, who began life as a soldier in the ranks.”
“If Glaucous had come to us with expertise in the governing of our people, I would be the first to support him, no matter what his background. But all he has done is to plant a magical tree,” Kiryn said wryly, “and cause a shield to be raised over us.”
“The shield is for our protection,” Silvanoshei argued.
“Just as prisoners in their jail cells are protected,” Kiryn returned.
Silvan was thoughtful. He could not doubt his cousin’s sincerity and his earnestness. Silvan did not want to hear anything against the regent. Quite honestly, Silvan was overwhelmed by the new responsibilities that had been thrust so suddenly upon him. He found it comforting to think that someone like Glaucous was there to advise and counsel him. Someone as formal and polite and charming as Glaucous.
“Let us not quarrel over this, Cousin,” Silvan said. “I will consider your words, and I thank you for speaking from your heart, for I know that this cannot have been an easy task for you.” He extended his hand.
Kiryn took his cousin’s hand with true goodwill and pressed it warmly. The two talked of other matters, of the ceremonies of the forthcoming coronation, of the current fashions in elven dancing. Kiryn then took his leave, promising to return to escort his cousin to his crowning.
“I will be wearing the crown that last graced the head of my grandfather,” said Silvan.
“May it bring you better fortune than it brought him, Your Majesty,” said Kiryn. With a grave expression, he took his departure.
Silvan was sorry to see his cousin leave, for he was very pleased with Kiryn’s warm friendliness and lively nature, even though he felt rather resentful at Kiryn for spoiling the morning. On this day of all days, a new king should experience nothing but joy.
“He is just envious,” Silvan said to himself. “Perfectly natural. I am sure I would feel the same.”
“Your Majesty,” said one of his servants, “I grieve to report that it is starting to rain.”
“Well, and what do you think of our new king?” General Konnal asked his companion as they ascended the stairs of the royal palace to pay homage to His Majesty on the morning of his coronation. The rain was steady and heavy now, had drawn a curtain of gray over the sun.
“I find him to be intelligent, modest, unaffected,” Glaucous replied, smiling. “I am extremely pleased with him. You?”
“He is an adolescent puppy,” said Konnal, shrugging. “He will give us no trouble.” His tone softened. “Your advice was right, my friend. We did well to place him on the throne. The people adore him. I have not seen them so happy in a long time. The entire city has turned out to celebrate. The streets are decked with flowers, everyone is dressed in his or her finest clothes. There will be parties that last for days. They are calling his coming a miracle. It is being said that those afflicted with the wasting sickness feel life restored to their limbs. There will be no more talk of lifting the shield. No reason to do so now.”
“Yes, we have uprooted the weed of rebellion the kirath were attempting to plant in our lovely garden,” Glaucous replied. “The kirath imagine they have defeated you by placing Lorac’s grandson on the throne. Do nothing to disillusion them. Let them celebrate. They have their king. They will trouble us no more.”
“And if by some unfortunate chance the shield should fail us,” Konnal stated with a meaningful look at the wizard, “we have settled his mother, as well. She will rush in with her troops, armed to the teeth, to save her country and find it in the hands of her very own son. It would almost be worth it just to see the expression on her face.”
“Yes, well, perhaps.” Glaucous did not seem to find this idea all that amusing. “I, for one, can do very well without ever seeing the witch’s face again. I do not believe for a moment that she would let her son remain on the throne. She wants that prize for herself. Fortunately,” he said smiling, his good humor restored, “she is unlikely to ever find her way inside. The shield will keep her out.”
“Yet the shield admitted her son,” said Konnal.
“Because I wanted it to do so,” Glaucous reminded the general.
“So you say.”
“Do you doubt me, my friend?”
Glaucous halted, turned to face the general. The wizard’s white robes rippled around him.
“Yes,” Konnal replied evenly. “Because I sense that you doubt yourself.”
Glaucous started to reply, closed his mouth on his words. Clasping his hands behind him, he walked on.
“I am sorry,” Konnal began.
“No, my friend.” Glaucous halted, turned. “I am not angry. I am hurt, that is all. Saddened.”
“It’s just that—”
“I will explain myself. Perhaps then you will believe me.”
Konnal sighed. “You purposefully misunderstand me. But, very well, I will hear your explanation.”
“I will tell you how it came about. But not here. Too many people.” Glaucous indicated a servant carrying a large wreath of laurel leaves. “Come into the library where we may talk privately.”
A large room lined with shelves of dark, polished wood filled with books and scrolls, the library was quiet, the books seeming to absorb the sounds of anyone who spoke, as if noting them down for future reference.
“When I said that the shield acted according to my wishes,” Glaucous explained, “I did not mean that I gave the shield a specific command to admit this young man. The magic of the shield emanates from the tree in the Garden of Astarin. Acting on my direction, the Woodshapers planted and nurtured the Shield Tree. I instructed them in the magic that caused the tree to grow. The magic is very much a part of me. I devote an immense amount of my strength and energy to maintaining the magic and keeping the shield in place. I feel sometimes,” Glaucous added softly, “as if I am the shield. The shield that keeps our people safe.”
Konnal said nothing, waited to hear more.
“I have suspected before now that the shield has been reacting to my unspoken wishes,” Glaucous continued, “wishes I did not even know I was making. I have long wanted a king to sit upon the throne. The shield knew that unconscious desire of mine. Thus when Silvanoshei happened to be near it, the shield embraced him.”
The general wanted to believe this, but his doubts lingered. Why has Glaucous said nothing of this before? Konnal wondered. Why do his eyes avoid mine when he speaks of it? He knows somethi
ng. He is keeping something from me.
Konnal turned to Glaucous. “Can you assure me that no one else will enter the shield?”
“I can assure you of that, my dear General,” Glaucous answered. “I stake my life upon it.”
19
The Blind Beggar
ina’s troops left Sanction in good spirits, roaring out songs to keep the cadence of the march and speaking of the bold deeds they would do in Silvanesti in the name of their idolized commander. Whenever Mina came in sight, riding her blood-red horse, the soldiers cheered wildly, often breaking ranks (braving the ire of their commanding officers) to cluster round her and touch her for luck.
Galdar was gone. He had left several days earlier for Khur, bearing Mina’s orders to General Dogah. Captain Samuval was in command in the minotaur’s absence. His command was easy at this point. The sun shone. The summer days were warm. The marching at this stage was safe and easy, for the Knights were only a few days out of Sanction and still in friendly territory. Soon they would enter the land of the ogres—once allies and now bitter enemies. The thought of fighting even those savage monsters could not cloud their spirits. Mina lit their shadows like a cold, pale sun.
A veteran campaigner, Samuval knew that when the weather broke and the rain set in, when the road narrowed, the wind howled and the enemy nipped at their heels, the soldiers would begin to have second thoughts about this venture. They would start to grouse and grumble, and a few might take it into their heads to start trouble. But, for now, his duties were light. He marched at Mina’s side—the envy of all in the column. He stood next to her as she sat on her horse reviewing the troops as they passed by. He was in her tent every night, studying the map and marking out the next day’s route. He slept near her tent, wrapped in his cloak, his hand on his sword hilt, ready to rush to her defense should she have need of him.
He did not fear any of the men would try to harm her. Lying on his cloak one night, he stared into the stars in the clear sky and wondered about that. She was a young woman—a very attractive young woman. He was a man who loved women, all kinds of women. He could not begin to count the number he had bedded. Usually the sight of a young slip of a maid as pretty as Mina would have had his blood bubbling, his loins aching. But he felt no twinge of desire in Mina’s presence and, listening to the talk around the campfires, he knew the other men in the ranks felt the same. They loved her, they adored her. They were awestruck, reverent. But he did not want her and he could not name anyone who did.
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