The Qualinesti

14 — The Clash of Stars

Verhanna, Rufus, and Greenhands broke camp in early morning while heavy fog in the higher parts of the Kharolis still clung to the trail. It hampered their progress greatly. Fearing unseen crevices and crumbling paths, the trio crept slowly ahead, keeping their backs to the slope of Mount Vikris, the second highest peak in the mountain range. As the day wore on, the fog worsened, until the warrior maiden finally called a halt sometime in midafternoon.

“We’ll walk into a ravine if we continue,” Verhanna said, vexed. “It’s better to wait out the fog.”

“We don’t get stuff like this in the Magnet Mountains,” Rufus observed. “No, sir, we never get fog like this.”

“I wish we weren’t getting it here,” was her waspish reply.

Greenhands passed his fingers through the drifting mist, closing them quickly as if snatching something. Bringing his hands to his face, he opened his fingers and studied them closely.

“What’re you doing?” Verhanna asked.

“I cannot feel this gray thing around us, yet it dampens my hand,” he said, puzzled. “How is that?”

“How should I know?”

As he turned his serene gaze on her, perhaps to respond to her rhetorical question, Verhanna stepped away from the steep wall of the mountain and peered upward into the murk. “I wish there was some wood about. We could go on if we could make torches.”

There was no wood, so there was nothing to do but wait out the confounding mist. Patience had never been one of Verhanna’s virtues, and she chafed at the delay. Greenhands perched on the ground, his back propped against a square boulder. Rufus took a nap.

Eventually the sky darkened and the air cooled. The fog fell as a heavy dew, soaking the travelers, their horses, and all their baggage. Rufus’s hat sagged around his ears. Verhanna wiped futilely at her armor, muttering dire predictions about rust. Only the green-fingered elf remained unconcerned. His long hair hung in thick, damp strands, and water dripped from the hem of his poncho.

“Let’s move,” Verhanna said at last. “As I figure it, we’re only a couple hours’ ride from Pax Tharkas.”

Once more Greenhands took the lead. He seemed to know where he was going, though he’d never been this way before. Verhanna and Rufus let their mounts pick their way several paces behind him. The violet dusk quickly changed to purple twilight. Solinari, the silver moon, rose above the mountains. The top of the pass was in sight, no more than twoscore paces ahead.

The warrior maiden jiggled her reins, urging her horse to a faster walk. Greenhands was nearly to the top of the pass. His right foot came down on the ridge of rock and dirt that marked the highest point in the pass, and he abruptly stopped. Verhanna pulled up beside him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Wait,” he replied. “It’s coming.”

“What now?”

She looked up and down the pass, alert for stampedes or rampaging goblins or anything.

Greenhands’ placid expression had changed to one of great excitement. His eyes danced as he pointed upward and said, “Look!”

The starry vault of the sky was crisscrossed by brilliant streaks of light. Dazzling fireballs began at one horizon, streamed upward to the zenith of heaven, and vanished in explosions of color. From every corner, to every corner, the sky was gridded with fiery trails that left ghostly glowing imprints on the watchers’ eyes.

Rufus halted on Greenhands’ other side. “Shooting stars,” he breathed, awestruck.

The celestial pyrotechnics raged on, utterly silent and blindingly brilliant. At times, two streaming fireballs would collide, making a doubly bright burst. Tiny streaks and broad, cometlike meteors were bom, chased each other, and died in every color of the rainbow. Red fireballs left yellow trails. Blue-white comets fell toward the ground, only to burst soundlessly overhead.

“What does it mean?” Rufus wondered, rubbing his neck, stiff from staring up so long.

“Who says it means anything?” replied Verhanna.

“Perhaps it’s an omen, or a warning from the gods, my captain.”

Greenhands smiled. “Do not always look for the worst, little friend. Perhaps this is simply the gods making merry. Maybe the gods need amusement, too. This might be a celebration, not a dire warning of doom.”

No one disputed his words, but Verhanna and Rufus shared a vague feeling of apprehension. This seemed but one more of the inexplicable, and therefore frightening, phenomena that had afflicted their world lately.

“Well, I can see the lamps of Pax Tharkas from here,” said Verhanna. “We’ll be there soon, and you can hunt for your poppa all over the camp.”

Greenhands pointed away from the site of the fortress. “No, this way,” he said and set off on the steep southern trail.

Verhanna maneuvered her horse in front of him. “Look here,” she fumed, “we’ve followed you across nowhere long enough. There’s nothing up this way. If your father is anywhere in these mountains, Pax Tharkas is the place to look. Besides, we’re low on food and water.”

“He is near,” said the green-fingered elf. Greenhands moved to go around the horse. Verhanna let her mount drift forward, cutting him off again. Finally the strange elf put his arms under the black charger’s belly.

“Hey!” Verhanna said sharply. “What’re you—?”

Greenhands planted his feet and lifted. Horse and rider together came off the ground. The animal remained strangely calm, though its feet dangled in midair. Verhanna remained quiet as well; she was dumbstruck. With a few grunts and only the slightest evidence of strain, the green-fingered elf raised the enormous load off the rocky ground, turned a half-circle, and set it down on the trail behind him.

“Yow! Do that again!” cried the kender. Greenhands was already on his way, climbing the path.

Stunned, Verhanna called for him to stop. When he didn’t, she said, rather illogically, “Stop him, Rufus! Don’t let him go that way!”

The kender gave her a look of supreme disgust. “How do you reckon I’ll stop him, my captain? Shall I tell him a funny story?”

Verhanna spurred her horse after the rapidly disappearing elf. She rattled up the sloping path, and out came her longsword. She had no desire to hurt him, but his confounding actions and sudden display of strength had shamed her. Raising her weapon, the warrior maiden intended to use the flat of the blade to stun Greenhands.

When she was only yards from the elf, there was a sudden glare of blinding light. For an instant, the mountainside was as bright as noon. Rufus yelled shrilly, and Verhanna felt searing heat on her neck and upraised sword arm. A roar filled her ears, a sizzling sound hissed nearby, and all was white light and throbbing pain.

Eventually cool darkness returned, and Verhanna found herself looking up into the unhappy face of Greenhands.

“Are you all right, my captain?” he said worriedly.

“Y-Yes. Ow!”

Her sword arm burned and ached. “What hit me?”

“Nothing hit you,” said Rufus, his head showing over the kneeling elfs shoulder. “One of those fireballs blasted into the mountain just above your head. The strike flung you off your horse and did this.”

He tossed the stump of her sword down beside her. Verhanna numbly grasped the handle. It was still hot to the touch, and the blade had been melted off, leaving only a misshapen nub of iron above the crossguard.

“Where’s my horse?” she asked groggily.

Rufus shook his head sadly and glanced over his shoulder toward the precipitous drop down the side of the mountain. He quickly said, “You can have mine, though. It’s too big for me. I feel like a pea on a boar’s back.”

They hoisted the stiff Verhanna to her feet and showed her the furrow plowed over the slope by the fireball. The steaming slash was melted at the edges. It was a mere foot or so above where her head had been.

Verhanna peered down the steep slope where her mount had perished. Shaking her head, she whispered sadly, “Poor Sable. You were a brave warrior.” Greenhands was supporting her trembling body. When she stumbled over a stone, he steadied her effortlessly.

With a healthy boost from Greenhands, Verhanna was soon mounted on Rufus’s chestnut horse. Their mobility was severely reduced by the loss of an animal but the kender wasn’t heavy and his horse carried the two of them easily.

“Do you know this trail?” the warrior maiden asked Rufus as they rode away from Pax Tharkas.

“No, my captain, though it seems to lead higher into the mountains.” The kender scrutinized the stars through a screen of speeding meteors and announced they were headed south.

“Into Thorbardin,” Verhanna mused. She cradled her sword arm, still numb from the shock of the fireball’s near miss. For Greenhands’ benefit, she said loudly, “Your father wasn’t a dwarf, was he?”

Before the elf could reply, Rufus piped up, “Oh, that’s impossible, my captain. He’s much too good-looking.” Verhanna jabbed the kender in the stomach with her elbow—her sore elbow. Drawing in her breath sharply, she cursed and groaned, “Shut up, Wart.”

Like one of the famed towers of Silvanost, Black Stone Peak stood out against the starry sky, tall, cold, and imperious. The darker openings on its face were entrances to its web of caves, first carved out of the hard, black rock by wild dragons some two thousand years earlier. Ulvian halted his pony and stared up at the forbidding peak.

Dru had once more regained his human form. Now he pushed past the Qualinesti prince, eager to be home again.

“You’ll have to dismount,” said the sorcerer, his voice drifting back on the night air. “There’s no true path into the caves, only some hand-cut steps.”

Ulvian swung down and led the pony by the reins. The night was fiercely cold, and his worn clothes provided little protection. There was no wind around Black Stone Peak, unlike every other mountaintop Ulvian had ever visited. Here the air was still and pregnant with menace.

The trail ended, and the two started up an uneven set of steps chiseled from the living rock. The pony went along reluctantly, tugging at its halter as the steps became steeper and narrower. Ulvian warred with the frightened animal until the pony finally snatched the reins from his hand. It clattered over the steps and quickly fled down the steep, winding trail.

“It’s no matter, my prince.” Dru said genially. “There’s no place for the beast to go.”

Ulvian turned to continue his climb. In the darkness, he took a wrong step and slid off the rock stairway. His sudden gasp and the sound of scattering pebbles echoed loudly.

“We’ll break our necks trying to climb this in the dark!” Ulvian declared.

Dru held out his left hand. As the sorcerer muttered some words in an unknown tongue, Ulvian saw that the ring of black onyx lying in his palm had begun to glow faintly orange, then cherry red. In seconds, a crimson aura had enveloped the sorcerer. The prince, his cuts and bruises forgotten, shrank back as Dru turned toward him.

The sorcerer smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Highness. You wished for light, and I have provided it,” he said smoothly. He climbed higher, approaching the vertical side of the peak. In the glow of the amulet, an oval opening came into sight. Dru ducked into the low cave, and Ulvian, rather reluctantly, followed behind.

The cave smelled old and dry, with a faint background aroma of decay the prince couldn’t identify. A dragon’s den should smell fetid, he knew, but this one had been vacant for two millennia. The floor was remarkably smooth and doubly difficult to walk on since it sloped seamlessly up to join the walls and ceiling.

As they moved through the passage, the bloody glow surrounding Dru now and again illuminated some object on the tunnel floor: a dead, desiccated bird, a broken clay lamp, some tatters of cloth.

The two moved hunchbacked for some distance. Suddenly Ulvian saw Dru straighten. In a pace or two, the prince had emerged from the low tunnel into a vast cavern hollowed out of the very center of the stone spire. The sorcerer kicked among some debris near the wall and found a torch. He muttered a word of magic over it, and the ancient timber burst into flame. Dru circled the great chamber, lighting other torches still held in iron wall brackets decorated with metal spikes. The smell of burning tarry pine filled the cold air.

When at last all the torches were lit, Dru tossed his into a firepit in the center of the room. Some debris and wood there crackled into flame.

Lighted, the chamber was hardly less fearful than when dark. Most of the furnishings were wrecked, destroyed when the sorcerer’s stronghold fell to the dwarves and elves. Glancing upward, Ulvian could see a few stars through the smoke hole fifty feet above him.

A more gruesome sight met his gaze when he looked down again. Resting in niches around the circular wall were hundreds and hundreds of skulls—white, empty, dry skulls. Some belonged to animals: mountain bears, elk, lions. Others were more disturbing. The light, airy craniums of elves nestled beside the thicker, smaller skulls of dwarves. In fewer numbers were human heads, recognizable by their wide jaws and small eye sockets.

“Lovely décor,” the prince said, sarcasm masking his nervousness.

Dru had righted a broken chair that could nonetheless bear his weight. “Oh, these are not my doing,” he said with mock humility. “The original owners of the peak collected these little mementos, and I didn’t have the heart to throw them away when I took possession.” A smile parted his thin lips. “Besides, I think they lend a certain air to my humble domicile.”

Ulvian shrugged and kicked through the shattered remains of Dru’s former life. He threw a leg over a stove-in barrel and sat. “Well, we’re here,” he said. “Now what?”

“Now you must give me the other half of my amulet.”

The small golden box was hard and heavy inside Ulvian’s cloak. “No,” the prince replied. “I have no illusions about how long I’ll live once I do that.”

“But, Your Highness, Feldrin will certainly send someone after us, perhaps even royal warriors of Thorbardin and Qualinesti! I cannot possibly defend us with only a half measure of my powers.”

Half a hundred skulls leered over Dru’s shoulders. Here on his own ground, the ragged prisoner of Pax Tharkas seemed to acquire new strength, greater self possession. “I didn’t come here to withstand a siege. I am bound for Qualinost,” Ulvian declared. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve gotten all the reward you earned—escape from Pax Tharkas and half your amulet.”

Dru folded his hands, twining his fingers together. “It’s a long way to Qualinost, my prince. You have neither horse, nor pony, nor royal griffon to take you there.”

From the corner of one eye, Ulvian saw the pommel of a sword lying on the floor, buried by torn parchment and broken pottery. “Am I your prisoner?” he asked coolly.

“I thought we were partners.”

“A prince of the blood and a base-born sorcerer, partners? I think not, Master Drulethen. On the other hand, if you wish to become my servant…” Ulvian rubbed his beard thoughtfully. The sword hilt was just beyond easy reach.

“I would serve you gladly! But without my entire amulet, I am a poor spell-caster and not half the sorcerer I could be for you, Highness.”

As Dru finished speaking, Ulvian hurled himself at the half-buried sword hilt. He skidded in the debris, and his fingers closed over the rough, wire-wrapped handle. By the time he’d rolled clumsily to his feet, Dru was gone. The broken chair was still there, but the sorcerer had vanished.

The prince whirled, searching wildly. Drulethen was nowhere to be seen. Then his voice boomed out, echoing in the vast circular hall. “You stupid half-breed! Do you think you can get the better of me so easily? How disappointed your father must be, to have such a worthless, stupid son. Will he weep, I wonder, when he learns of your death?”

“Come out and face me!” Ulvian cried, his eyes flying to and fro over the grisly trophies lining the wall.

“We could have worked together, you know,” Dru went on. “With your name and my power, we could have forged a mighty empire. No one could have stopped us—not the dwarves, nor the Speaker of the Stars in Silvanost. But you had to be foolishly greedy. You thought you could command Drulethen of Black Stone Peak.”

Ulvian stood by the firepit, turning constantly, keeping the sword always ready. It was an ancient dwarven blade, short and thick and rather rusty, but still lethal. The sorcerer’s voice bounced off the walls.

“I am no one’s tool!” the prince shouted. “Even my father will give way to me in time!”

Ten tunnel mouths opened into the central chamber at floor level, and Ulvian could see nearly a dozen more higher up. The prince didn’t recognize the one he’d emerged from with Dru. Sweat formed on his brow.

“I have only to wait,” the sorcerer said silkily. “When you fall asleep, the amulet will be mine.”

“Liar! You can’t touch the charmed box!”

“True enough, but I will have it, and I’ll be rid of you. Good night, my prince. Sleep well. I’ll be waiting.”

Then there was silence, except for the soft crackling of the fire.

“Dru!” called Ulvian. No answer. “Drulethen! If you don’t come out, I’ll pitch the box into a gorge so deep you’ll never find it!”

Still there was no response.

Furious and terrified, Ulvian strode to the nearest tunnel opening. As he stepped inside it, a wall of wind gushed forth, flinging him back into the circular chamber. It was impossible to resist the wind, as the slick, curving tunnel floor offered no purchase for his feet. Trash covering the floor whirled around him, and soon Ulvian was back by the firepit. The wind ceased abruptly.

The same thing happened when he tried two other tunnels. Dru wasn’t going to allow him to escape with the box. Very well, resolved the prince silently. If he had to, he would smash the onyx cylinder himself rather than allow the sorcerer to possess it. The pommel of the dwarven sword was hard brass; it would do nicely as a hammer.

The torches blazed brightly in their wall sconces. Ulvian sank down by the soot-stained rim of the firepit, the sword held firmly in one hand and the golden box in the other. The cold of the mountain penetrated to his very bones. He huddled by the small fire burning in the firepit and tried to ward off sleep.

Twenty warriors and their leaders crouched in a cold defile, screened on three sides by slabs of upright stone. Some watched the wild aerial display, mesmerized by the dash and clash of shooting stars. Others gripped their lance shafts tightly, feeling the strain of impending combat like a hollow ache in the pit of their bellies.

“I don’t like this—this marvel,” Kemian whispered. “Do you think it’s the sorcerer’s doing, Majesty?”

Kith-Kanan looked up at the dance of comets and shook his head. “That is beyond the power of any mortal to orchestrate,” he said. “More likely, it’s part of the other wonders we’ve seen.” For no reason he could name, the Speaker felt a surge of elation as he watched the stars racing and crashing over their heads. It seemed almost a celebration of sorts. He turned his attention back to the dark pinnacle just ahead. Dru and Ulvian must be inside by now. Still, they couldn’t simply storm in. There was no telling what might lie waiting for them.

Though the Speaker hadn’t been part of the attacking force that originally captured Drulethen, General Parnigar had. Parnigar had reported that Drulethen’s wyvern had slaughtered many good warriors who tried to fight it in the tight confines of the tunnels. At last, Parnigar and the noted dwarf hammer-fighter Thulden Forkbeard had gotten behind the monster and cut its head off.

“Here’s what we will do,” the Speaker whispered. The young warriors forgot the shooting stars and listened intently. “You will separate into five groups of four, and each group will enter a separate tunnel. They supposedly all converge on the center hall, but be careful! Be as silent as you can, and if you find Prince Ulvian, subdue him and bring him out.”

“What if we find the sorcerer?” asked one of the warriors.

“Take him alive if you can, but if he resists, slay him.” Twenty heads nodded in unison.

“Sire,” Kemian said, “what about you and me?”

“We shall go in the main entrance,” Kith-Kanan announced.

The warriors left their lances with their tethered horses and formed into their assault groups, daggers drawn. Kith-Kanan raised his hand, and the ones destined for the farthest cave opening started up the trail. A moment later, the second group set out, and when they had reached the base of Black Stone Peak, the Speaker and General Ambrodel drew their swords and started forward.

In the cold, still air, every sound was as clear as crystal—the click of spurs on stone, the squeak of armor joints flexing, the rush of each elf’s breath. The peak loomed over Kith-Kanan. Memories tumbled through his head, brief flashes of his past like the flare of the exploding meteors overhead. The scene he’d created by baring a weapon in the Tower of the Stars in Silvanost. Scaling the Quinari Palace the night he left on his resulting exile. Arcuballis, his noble griffon, companion during his sojourn in the wilds. Sithas, his twin, whom he hadn’t seen since the division of the elven nation. Flamehaired Hermathya. The vestiges of old shame still burned when he remembered how much he’d been tempted by her beauty, even though she was wife to his brother. His own wife, Suzine, who had perished in the war. Mackeli, his brother, if not by blood then by heart and soul. And as the black shadow of the peak covered him completely, Kith-Kanan recalled the face of Anaya, his first wife and greatest love, the dark Kagonesti woman he’d lost so long ago in the wild forest of Silvanesti.

The cave mouth was low, and both elves had to duck to enter. Kemian tried to go in ahead of his monarch, but Kith-Kanan gestured him back.

Compared to the brightly flashing display outside, the tunnel was velvet blackness. Kith-Kanan eased his feet along, sword point leading, as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The curving floor was like glass, and his iron-shod feet slid all too easily. Kemian lost his balance and fell backward, landing with a loud clang. Shamefaced, he rolled to his hands and knees and hissed, “Forgive me, Majesty!”

Kith-Kanan waved away his apology and asked, “Can you stand?”

The young general rose slowly. “Come,” whispered the Speaker.

A yellow glimmer appeared far ahead. Kith-Kanan’s breath froze on the chin guard of his helmet. The feeble light grew and picked out a thin coating of frost on the tunnel walls. No wonder it was so hard to walk! Kith-Kanan put out a hand to halt Kemian. The warrior stopped.

Carefully the Speaker replaced his sword in its scabbard. Tied to the upper hanger ring of the scabbard was a small leather bag, closed with a drawstring. Kith-Kanan removed the bag from its ring. It held powdered resin, which sword-armed warriors used to coat the grips of their weapons. During battle, blood and sweat conspired to make sword grips treacherous, so a generous layer of pine resin made a warrior’s hold more secure.

Kemian watched, fascinated, as Kith-Kanan sprinkled resin on the soles of his metal-clad boots. The white powder clung to everything it touched. Kith-Kanan indicated that Kemian should imitate his action. The younger elf did so.

It was fortunate they applied the gum to their feet, for only a short way ahead, the tunnel floor sloped downward at such an angle that walking without the resin would have been impossible. By now, both elves could smell torches burning—and something else. They heard a low drone, not of conversation, but of a male voice singing.

The Speaker stopped short. He squatted, using his sword for balance. Far out in the center of the great chamber ahead, a lone figure huddled under a ragged brown cloak, rocking back and forth, humming.

“It’s the prince!” Kemian breathed.

There was no sign of Drulethen, which worried Kith-Kanan greatly, though he was relieved to see his son alive. “Stay hidden, General. I will approach my son.”

“No, sire!” Kemian caught the Speaker’s arm. “It could be a ruse to draw you out!”

“He is my son.” The Speaker’s brown eyes bored into Kemian’s blue ones. The general dropped his gaze and his restraining grip.

“The other warriors should be in position by now,” Kith-Kanan said encouragingly.

He stepped down the passage, his sword still sheathed. Kemian braced his hands against the walls and waited in an agony of suspense, fearing something would spring out and attack the Speaker.

Kith-Kanan emerged into the chamber. The array of skulls, the detritus of Drulethen’s former furnishings, failed to distract him. In a moderate tone, he called out, “Ulvian?”

The prince’s sagging head jerked up, and he swiveled his neck to face his father. Cuts and bruises marred his bearded face. Ulvian’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s clever,” he said, his words slurred and rather high-pitched. “Assuming the shape of my father, eh? Well, it won’t work!”

He slashed at the air with an antique short sword.

Kith-Kanan glanced at the other tunnel mouths. The dark circles were all empty. He saw no sign of his other warriors.

“Son, it’s truly me. Where is Drulethen?”

Ulvian staggered to his feet. He needed two hands to keep the sword pointed at his father. “I won’t give you the amulet,” he snarled. “I won’t!”

Kith-Kanan walked slowly forward, hands wide and devoid of weapons. “Ullie, this is your father. I’ve come to save you. I’ve come to take you home.” He spoke soothingly, and the prince listened, his head hanging like a ponderous weight on his shoulders. The Speaker came within an arm’s length of his son.

“You’re not my father,” croaked the exhausted Ulvian. Awkwardly he thrust at Kith-Kanan. The Speaker easily sidestepped the blow and grappled with his bleary son. Kemian and all the other warriors, still hidden in the tunnels, burst from the openings, believing their Speaker was in danger. No sooner had they shown themselves than a blast of wind roared down from the ceiling, flattening the warriors and sweeping them head over heels back into the tunnels. Their cries echoed from far up the passages. The wind ceased blowing, and Kith-Kanan and Ulvian were alone in the chamber. Almost.

“Well, well,” said the voice of Dru. “The sovereign of Qualinesti has come to see me. I’m flattered. I knew there would be pursuit, but I hardly dared imagine the Speaker of the Sun himself would seek me out.”

“Show yourself, Drulethen,” Kith-Kanan commanded. “Or do you prefer to hide like some eavesdropping servant?”

“Here I am!”

Kith-Kanan whirled awkwardly, supporting Ulvian in his arms. The sorcerer had appeared behind them, on the opposite side of the firepit. Drulethen now wore a crimson robe. A band of shining black silk flowed across his chest and over his shoulder, trailing on the floor behind him. A ruby pin glittered in the silk on the sorcerer’s left breast, and his blond hair was shiningly clean and combed back from his forehead. All trace of the slave of Pax Tharkas called Dru was gone. He was Drulethen of Black Stone Peak once more.

“By your command, Great Speaker,” he said mockingly. He wore the onyx ring portion of the amulet around his neck on a strand of braided black silk. He bore no obvious weapons.

“You will surrender now to the authority of the Speaker of the Sun and the Thalas-Enthia of Qualinesti,” Kith-Kanan said. “Surrender or face the consequences.”

Dru chuckled. “Surrender? To one elf and one halfbreed? I think not. Your troops are scattered, Speaker, and cannot enter this place unless I wish it. And you cannot compel me to do anything.”

Never taking his eyes from the sorcerer, Kith-Kanan lowered Ulvian to the floor. The prince was unconscious from sheer exhaustion. The Speaker drew his own formidable blade.

“Swords don’t frighten me! I have only to wish it, and I’ll go where you’ll never see me or find me. That will leave you and your worthless son to fall asleep or starve. In either case, you will be at my mercy.”

The Speaker stared hard at Drulethen’s face. He knew from experience that magical disappearance was an illusion, a misdirection of the watcher’s attention. The sorcerer wasn’t going to fool him easily.

“So why don’t you go?” asked Kith-Kanan.

Drulethen stepped down from the hearth and circled around, coming closer. His scarlet raiment rustled softly. Kith-Kanan kept himself between the sorcerer and Ulvian. “I merely hoped that you could be reasonable,” purred the Silvanesti. “Perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

Stall. Think, thought Kith-Kanan. Give Kemian a chance to do something. “Such as what?” the Speaker said.

“Inside your son’s shirt is a small golden box. It holds the other half of my amulet, and I cannot get it myself. If you give me the rest of my amulet, I will swear to serve you for, say, fifty years.”

“Serve me how? I do not traffic in black magic.”

Drulethen smiled pleasantly. He looked sleek and well groomed in his new attire, not at all like the wretched prisoner who had hauled stones from the Kharolis quarries. “If it’s definitions that bother you, then I’ll stipulate that I shall perform only the whitest of magic, exactly as Your Majesty orders. Isn’t that fair?”

Torchlight flashed off the ruby pinned to the black silk on Drulethen’s chest. Kith-Kanan’s eyes flickered to it and back to the sorcerer’s face. What had the magician just said? Ah, yes. He remembered now. “So for fifty years’ service to me, you get a lifetime of power for yourself,” he said. “Assuming you even honor your oath to me. I don’t think the world would thank me, Drulethen.”

The sorcerer’s gray eyes were flinty. “Then your answer is no?”

“It is no.”

The ruby flashed fire again. This time Kith-Kanan’s attention strayed too long, and Drulethen suddenly wasn’t there. The Speaker crouched, ready for an attack, then cut through the air with his sword. From above came thin, eerie laughter.

“Father and son are so alike!” chortled Drulethen. “I shall leave you to a common fate. Farewell, son of Sithel! I only wish my wyvern were here. He did so enjoy eating the flesh of highborn Silvanesti!” The laughter took a long time to fade away.

Kith-Kanan knelt and found the hard lump that was Feldrin’s box inside Ulvian’s clothing. The prince never stirred.

Circling the room, the Speaker searched for a way out. No wind rushed in at him unless he got within a pace of an opening. Lying just inside the tunnels were daggers and helmets dropped by his lancers.

An idea came to him. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Kith-Kanan shouted, “Hello! Kemian Ambrodel, can you hear me?”

Nothing. He moved to the next tunnel, always standing back to avoid triggering the magic wind. “Hello, this is the Speaker! Can you hear me?” he cried. After trying six holes, he finally received a reply.

“Yes, we hear you,” came the faint answer. It was one of his warriors. Soon the Speaker heard Kemian’s shout.

“Get all the rope you have,” Kith-Kanan ordered. “Tie it together, then tie one end to a large rock. Roll it into the tunnel. It should follow the downslope to me, then I’ll be able to use the rope to climb out against the wind!”

“Understood!”

“It won’t work,” said Dru’s bland voice. “No rope in the world can withstand the Breath of Hiddukel.”

Kith-Kanan planted his fists on his hips and said sarcastically, “You don’t mind if we try, though, do you?”

He returned to his sleeping son and gathered him in his arms. He lay Ulvian’s slack form near the entrance to the tunnel where he’d heard his warriors. As he did so, Kith-Kanan recalled Drulethen’s reference to Hiddukel. That must be the evil sorcerer’s patron deity. Weeks ago, when Hiddukel had appeared to him in the Tower of the Sun, he’d given his name as Dru. Had the god been hinting at the part his infamous disciple would play in the lives of the Qualinesti?

“There’s no way out for you.” Dru’s voice was sharp. “Give me my amulet, and I’ll spare your life.”

“My life? A while ago you offered to be my slave for fifty years.”

The sorcerer said no more. Kith-Kanan drew a tattered piece of tapestry over his son and sat down to wait. His nerves were singing with tension, but he knew that if the warriors took too long, fatigue would surely set in.

And nothing would stand between Drulethen and his black amulet.