Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Eighteen Dawn in a Time of Darkness

Morning came to Ansalon, too fast for some, too slow for others. The sun was a red slit in the sky, as if someone had drawn a knife across the throat of the darkness. Gilthas slipped hurriedly through the shadowy garden that surrounded his prison palace, returning somewhat late to take up the dangerous role he must continue to play.

Planchet was lurking upon the balcony, watching anxiously for the young king, when a knock on the door announced Prefect Palthainon, come for his morning string-jerking. Planchet could not plead His Majesty’s indisposition this day as he had the last.

Palthainon, an early riser, was here to bully the king, exercise his power over the young man, make a show of his puppeteering to the rest of the court.

“Just a moment, Prefect!” Planchet shouted. “His Majesty is using the chamber pot.” The elf caught sight of movement in the garden. “Your Majesty!” he hissed as loudly as he dared. “Make haste!”

Gilthas stood under the balcony. Planchet lowered the rope.

The king grasped it, climbed up nimbly, hand over hand.

The knocking resumed, louder and more impatient.

“I insist upon seeing His Majesty!” Palthainon demanded.

Gilthas clambered over the balcony. He made a dive for his bed, climbed in between the sheets fully dressed. Planchet tossed the blankets over the king’s head and answered the door with his finger on his lips.

“His Majesty was ill all night. This morning he is unable to keep down so much as a bit of dry toast,” Planchet whispered. “I had to help him back to bed.”

The prefect peered over Planchet’s shoulder. He saw the king raise his head, peering at the senator with bleary eyes.

“I am sorry His Majesty has been ill,” said the prefect, frowning, “but he would be better up and doing instead of lying about feeling sorry himself. I will be back in an hour. I trust His Majesty will be dressed to receive me.”

Palthainon departed. Planchet closed the door. Gilthas smiled, stretched his arms over his head, and sighed. His parting from Kerian had been wrenching. He could still smell the scent of the wood smoke that clung to her clothing, the rose oil she rubbed on her skin. He could smell the crushed grass on which they had lain, wrapped in each others arms, loathe to say good-bye. He sighed again and then climbed out of bed, going to his bath, reluctantly washing away all traces of his clandestine meeting with his wife.

When the prefect entered an hour later, he found the king busy writing a poem, a poem—if one could believe it—about a dwarf. Palthainon sniffed and told the young man to leave off such foolishness and return to business.

Clouds rolled in over Qualinesti, blotting out the sun. A light drizzle began to fall.

The same morning sunshine that had gleamed down upon Gilthas shone on his cousin, Silvanoshei, who had also been awake all night. He was not dreading the morning, as was Gilthas. Silvanoshei waited for the morning with an impatience and a joy that still left him dazed and disbelieving.

This day, Silvanoshei was to be crowned Speaker of the Stars. This day, beyond all hope, beyond all expectation, he was to be proclaimed ruler of his people. He would succeed in doing what his mother and his father had tried to do and failed.

Events had happened so fast, Silvanoshei was still dazed by it all. Closing his eyes, he relived it all again.

He and Rolan, arriving yesterday on the outskirts of Silvanost, were confronted by a group of elf soldiers.

“So much for my kingship,” Silvanoshei thought, more disappointed than afraid. When the elf soldiers drew their swords, Silvan expected to die. He waited, braced, weaponless. At least he would meet his end with dignity. He would not fight his people.

He would be true to what his mother wanted from him.

To Silvan’s amazement, the elf soldiers lifted their swords to the sunlight and began to cheer, proclaiming him Speaker of the Stars, proclaiming him king. This was not an execution squad, Silvan realized. It was an honor guard.

They brought him a horse to ride, a beautiful white stallion.

He mounted and rode into Silvanost in triumph. Elves lined the streets, cheering and throwing flowers so that the street was covered with them. Their perfume scented the air.

The soldiers marched on either side, keeping the crowd back.

Silvan waved graciously. He thought of his mother and father.

Alhana had wanted this more than anything in the world. She had been willing to give her life to attain it. Perhaps she was watching from wherever the dead go, perhaps she was smiling to see her son fulfill her dearest dream. He hoped so. He was no longer angry at his mother. He had forgiven her, and he hoped that she had forgiven him.

The parade ended at the Tower of the Stars. Here a tall and stem-looking elf with graying hair met them. He introduced himself as General Konnal. He introduced his nephew, Kiryn, who—Silvan was delighted to discover—was a cousin. Konnal then introduced the Heads of House, who would have to determine if Silvanoshei was indeed the grandson of Lorac Caladon (his mother’s name was not mentioned) and therefore rightful heir to the Silvanesti throne. This, Konnal assured Silvanoshei in an aside, was a mere formality.

“The people want a king,” Konnal said. “The Heads of House are quite ready to believe you are a Caladon, as you claim to be.”

“I am a Caladon,” Silvanoshei said, offended by the implication that whether he was or he wasn’t, the Heads would approve him anyhow. “I am the grandson of Lorac Caladon and the son of Alhana Starbreeze.” He spoke her name loudly, knowing quite well that he wasn’t supposed to speak the name of one deemed a dark elf.

And then an elf had walked up to him, one of the most beautiful of his people that Silvanoshei had ever seen. This elf, who was dressed in white robes, stood looking at him intently.

“I knew Lorac,” the elf said at last. His voice was gentle and musical. “This is indeed his grandson. There can be no doubt.”

Leaning forward, he kissed Silvanoshei on both cheeks. He looked at General Konnal and said again, “There can be no doubt.”

“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 grand-father, 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 dreamin 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 tell 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 something. 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.”