The Qualinesti

19 — The Death of the Sun

Before the first frost, they moved Silveran to a room at the end of the south wing of the Speaker’s house. In this secluded chamber, his nightly ravings wouldn’t disturb those sleeping near the center of the great house. Tamanier, as keeper of the keys, had the duty of locking Silveran in his room each night. If his cries became too loud, a sleeping draft would be brought for him to drink. Only through powerful soporifics could they hold back the relentless specter that haunted the young elf. The strong medicines left him groggy and befuddled most of his waking hours.

When Solinari, the silver moon, first called the fingers of frost over Qualinesti, Silveran was sleeping fitfully in his pitiful cell. There was no furniture or lamp or anything else he might use to harm himself or others. Of his blankets, only two hadn’t been shredded by fevered hands as he struggled to keep the hideous phantom at bay.

Greenhands, dead Dru called. Rise, murderer. Tonight, you join me in the land of the dead.

“No,” Silveran groaned. “Oh, no, please!”

Your time is all used up. Rise! I am coming for you!

“No!”

With a sudden spasm, the elf jerked awake. His heart hammered inside his ribs, and his breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. “You’ll not take me! You’ll not!”

He scrambled to his feet. The door to his room was locked from the outside. Panic seized Silveran. He stood and kicked the locked door hard.

The thick wooden panel boomed but stayed firm. Knowing his son’s great strength, Kith-Kanan had sadly ordered the door be the stoutest that could be found.

Greenhands, murderer…

In desperation, Silveran threw his entire body at the door. Under his frenzied assault, the jamb splintered, and the door flew wide. The dark hall outside was cold. Winter rugs had not yet been laid on the bare wood floor, and the elf’s teeth chattered as he staggered out into the chill.

To his left were door-sized windows, shuttered. Through the slats of the seven-foot-tall shutters came a weird, yellow-green light. Silveran uttered a short, sharp cry and recoiled from the slivers of sickly light slicing in between the slats. Laughter rang in his head—Dru’s laughter, mingled with the sound of rattling chains.

He ran down the hall, blindly blundering from one closed door to another. These ground floor rooms were unoccupied, as the Speaker was entertaining no guests. Silveran shook each door handle and pounded on each panel, but he couldn’t get in. The chartreuse light grew stronger, until it cast Silveran’s own long shadow to the end of the empty hall.

The light seeped through the closed shutters like oil through cheesecloth. As the petrified elf watched, it coalesced into the rough form of an elf. Silveran pressed his back against a locked door and stared in abject terror. The greenly glowing form assumed distinct arms and legs—but no head. The neck rose up, but where the head should be was only darkness.

Flee if you can, murderer! I have come for you! boomed the voice.

Silveran bolted from the shelter of the doorway and ran down the hall, crying out in horror.

He crossed the receiving room at the main entrance on the ground floor and seized the first available doorknob. This was the Speaker’s trophy room. Here were displayed Kith-Kanan’s various suits of armor, his personal weapons, as well as flags and standards captured from the Ergothians during the Kinslayer War. Silveran wove his way among the stands of halberds, swords, and pikes. The glint of metal gave him an idea, a mad idea. He would kill the wretched ghost again—for good this time—and be safe. Safe and free.

But the pikes and swords were held in their racks by strong loops of chain and wire, and none came easily to hand. Silveran hurried by them and went to the rear wall, scanning the trophies mounted there. These were not, properly speaking, weapons, but rather tools the Speaker had used in his long career. The saw he had wielded to fell the first tree when Qualinost was being built. The mason’s trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the Tower of the Sun. The hammer King Glenforth of Thorbardin had given him to carve out the first block for the fortress of peace, Pax Tharkas.

The hammer rested on a small pedestal under a crystal dome. The silver bands on its handle sparkled, and its gilded head gleamed. The dome was not sealed, and Silveran quickly sent it crashing to the floor. The hammer fit his grip as if made for him.

He exulted. The mighty dwarven hammer would smash diamonds to dust if swung smartly and struck fairly. Now he would deal with the monster Drulethen. His torment would soon be finished!

The door of the trophy room opened slowly. The elf huddled in the shadows, hammer couched on his shoulders. A pale yellow light filtered in from the open door, and a voice whispered, “Silveran? Are you in here?”

“Yes!” he shouted, leaping on the door and wrenching it fully open. He saw for a second a grinning, fleshless skull staring at him with empty white eye sockets, heard the mocking laughter in his ears. “Now I will kill you forever, Dru!” Silveran screamed and brought the hammer down in a smashing blow on Dru’s skull. Bone yielded under the awful impact, and he smelled blood. The yellow light went out.

Silveran collapsed in a limp heap on the floor. He’d done it. He’d killed Dru completely. Now he was free. His eyelids fluttered closed just as more light filled the room.

Tamanier, Ulvian, and Verhanna lifted their lamps high. Behind them, sleepy servants muttered about their interrupted rest. The lamplight fell upon the scene in the Speaker’s trophy room.

“By all the holy gods!” Tamanier cried. “He’s killed the Speaker!”

The entire Guard of the Sun was roused and turned out of their barracks while the best healers in Qualinost were summoned to the Speaker’s house. Kith-Kanan bore a terrible wound on his head where the dwarven hammer had broken his skull. But he was not dead. His heart beat, and he drew breath, but the Speaker of the Sun had not opened his eyes since the tragedy.

Strangely, Silveran was likewise insensible. His body was unmarked, yet he could not be roused, even when foul-smelling asafetida was waved under his nose. All signs of madness had left him; his face was peaceful, and the deep lines in his brow were smoothed out. He looked like a sleeping child, lying on the floor by his mortally wounded father.

Verhanna refused any help and carried her father to his bed. Tamanier explained how Kith-Kanan had heard the disturbance Silveran had caused and had gone, without summoning any guards, to investigate.

“I will never forgive myself,” the old castellan said, wringing his hands. “I should have gone in his stead!”

“Never mind,” Ulvian said unsteadily as they mounted the steps on each side of Verhanna. “No one knew this was going to happen. Silveran must have struck out at Father in a delirium.”

In truth, the prince was much shaken by this turn of events. He had never desired Kith-Kanan’s death, and he somehow realized the amulet had deliberately maneuvered father and son together for just this result. Now the evil talisman wouldn’t have to wait long for Ulvian to receive that which he’d requested. In days—perhaps hours—Ulvian would be Speaker of the Sun.

Aytara and the entire college of Quen arrived, and they were put to work trying to save Kith-Kanan’s life. Silveran merited only a passing glance. Aside from the fact that he couldn’t be awakened, he seemed in perfect health. The high priestess didn’t wish to waste a single spell or incantation on the uninjured elf; all the magic they could gather would be needed for the Speaker. Two of the guards carried the Speaker’s unconscious son to a small room on the second floor of the great house. Their orders were to chain him and stand guard at his door.

Kith-Kanan was dying.

Soon the whole house was saturated with the smell of incense and the sound of chanting. The Clerics of Quen invoked their mightiest spells, and they succeeded in slowing the creep of death through the Speaker’s limbs, but they couldn’t stop it. Aytara admitted as much to Verhanna and Ulvian in the sitting room of their father’s chambers.

“How—how long will he live?” asked Verhanna, silent tears trickling down her face.

“A day. Perhaps two. He is very strong. A normal elf would have died on the spot from such a blow. You should be prepared, my lady. The end could come at any time.”

“Is there nothing you can do?”

Aytara bowed. Her white robes were wrinkled, her sky-blue sash loosely tied. She, too, was crying. “No, Highness. I am deeply sorry.”

Verhanna nodded and the high priestess departed.

After a silent moment, Ulvian coughed. “There remains the matter of my succession,” he said.

Verhanna. Glared. “What succession?”

“When our father dies, who will be the next Speaker? Certainly not our mad half-brother.”

Snarling with outrage, Verhanna seized her brother by the front of his shirt and propelled him backward out the door and into the hallway, until he thudded against a pillar. “Don’t talk to me about crowns!” she said through clenched teeth. “Our father isn’t even dead yet, and already you crave his scepter! I tell you this, Brother, if you mention such a thing to me again before Father is gone, I’ll kill you. I’ll gut you like a wild pig! Is that clear?”

Mastering the fear that trembled through his body, Ulvian said that it was. He had no doubt she meant what she said. Though he clutched her arms, he knew he’d never break her grip.

Verhanna felt something hard under her wrist. She plucked open Ulvian’s blue shirt, sending buttons flying. There was a leather bag hanging around his neck. Her brother’s eyes were wide with fear and anger.

“What’s this?” she hissed. When he didn’t reply, she drew her dagger in her left hand and held it to his face.

For an instant, he thought Verhanna was going to slit his throat, but all she did was cut the thong holding the leather bag. Stepping back, she pried it open and found the onyx amulet.

“What are you doing with this?” she demanded.

“It’s just a lump of carved stone,” he said, his voice quavering. Ulvian prayed silently for the amulet to intervene. Nothing happened.

“This was destroyed in the fire when Drulethen was—” Verhanna stopped in midsentence. Her head snapped around in the direction of their father’s bedchamber. Slowly she turned back to Ulvian, her face suffused with blood.

“You!” she breathed.

“No, Hanna, it wasn’t—”

She seized her brother again, shoving him so hard against the pillar that his vision filled with stars. “Let me go! You’ll regret it if you hurt me!” he babbled.

“I haven’t got time for you now,” she muttered fiercely. She let him go. Ulvian’s feet dropped to the floor.

“Sergeant of the guard!” Verhanna bawled. A warrior with a fanlike array of horsehair on the top of his helmet came running down the corridor. “Post a guard around this room,” she ordered. “No one is to enter but I myself, Tamanier Ambrodel, or the holy lady Aytara. Got that?”

The guard glanced sideways at the prince. “Is my lord Ulvian to be excluded, Captain?” he asked.

“He most certainly is. If I find out anyone else but the three I named has gone in there, I’ll have your head.”

The sergeant, a seasoned warrior, swallowed hard. “It shall be done, Captain!” he vowed.

A squad of eight guards formed before the doors to the Speaker’s rooms. It was nearly dawn. Verhanna left Tamanier to make the announcement to the people. Already heralds clad in golden tabards were appearing in the halls, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and tugging on their ankle-high boots. The old castellan, strain and sorrow written into every line on his face, shepherded the elf boys and girls into an adjoining room. Minutes later, the heralds emerged, red-eyed and weeping. They raced out of the building to cry the sorrowful news to the waking city.

Verhanna went to see Silveran. The guards outside the chamber stood aside for her as she unlocked the thick door of his room.

“Captain,” one of the guards said to her before she entered, “you’d best look at his hands.”

She was weary and heartsick and still angry with Ulvian, and she told the guard she had no patience for riddles.

“Please, Captain,” insisted the guard. “He was once called Greenhands, wasn’t he? Well, his fingers aren’t green anymore.”

Verhanna’s brows lifted at that. She went in and closed the heavy door behind her.

Despite the thick chains that encircled his arms and legs, Silveran was the picture of peace. It made her heart ache anew to see him lying so innocent and untroubled while their father was dying. What evil miasma had invaded his simple, guileless mind and made him go mad with fear? She still held the black amulet in her hand. Verhanna knelt on one knee and studied the elf’s hands. Just as the guard had said, Silveran’s fingers were now white, contrasting with his tanned hands.

Slowly, with much fluttering of eyelids, Silveran was waking.

“Hanna,” he said happily. “Hello.”

She stared down at him, incredulous at his calm manner. He sat up, and the chains draped heavily on his stomach. “Oof,” he wheezed. “What’s this? Why am I bound?”

“Don’t you remember what happened?” she asked.

“Remember what? Won’t you take these chains off? They hurt me.”

“How do you think you came to be here?” she said sharply.

Silveran’s brow furrowed. “I was asleep,” he said thoughtfully. “I had some bad dreams—then I woke up, and there you were, and here are the chains.”

In slow, deliberate words, she explained what had happened. Silveran cried out and retreated to the wall. The door opened and a guard poked his head in, but Verhanna waved him out. Silveran hugged himself and gasped for air.

“It cannot be,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a dream, a terrible dream!”

“It is the truth,” she said grimly. “The Speaker is dying.”

He buried his face in his hands. “I am cursed!” Silveran moaned. “I have slain my beloved father!”

Verhanna sprang forward, grabbing his hands and dragging them away from his face. “Listen to me! You may have been cursed, but you’re all right now. When father dies—” she choked on the word—“you must go before the Thalas-Enthia and demand that they name you Speaker of the Sun. Otherwise Ulvian will claim the throne. You must do it!”

“But I must be punished for slaying our father,” he objected, sobbing. “No one could want me to rule. Let Ulvian be Speaker. I must be put to death for my crime!”

Verhanna shook him hard, rattling his chains. “No! It wasn’t your fault. Ulvian used Drulethen’s black amulet to drive you mad. He’s the criminal. You are the chosen successor. Everything depends on you. Father believes you are the future of Qualinesti!”

Bells began tolling from the high towers of the city. The heralds’ dire tidings were spreading fast. Verhanna listened to the doleful sound, knowing it was the Speaker’s death knell. When the bells ceased ringing, it would mean Kith-Kanan was dead.

Quickly the warrior maiden unlocked the fetters on Silveran’s hands and legs. “You stay here,” she said. “I’ll have the guards lock you in. You’ll be safe.”

“Safe from what?”

There was no time to explain. Silveran reached out for Verhanna as she made for the door. Whatever he intended to say died in his throat as he noticed for the first time that his fingers were no longer green.

“The power has left me,” he breathed. “I no longer feel its touch.”

Verhanna hesitated, her hand on the knob. “The magic? It’s gone?”

He nodded. “Good,” she said firmly. “Maybe that will be to your advantage.”

The door slammed behind her before he could ask what she meant.

To walk among the green trees, to smell the sunwashed air, to eat what came to hand, and to sleep under the stars—that was the good life. The best life. For all his deeds and wisdom, it was this simple woodland existence that Kith-Kanan always hungered for. The myth makers, the legend builders, had elevated him into a hero, a demigod, in his own lifetime. No doubt after he was dead, their exaggerations would grow larger with each passing century. Perhaps Kith-Kanan might become a god someday in the eyes of his descendants. He did not wish it. A far more suitable tribute would be the continued happy existence of the nation he’d founded, Qualinesti.

Kith-Kanan walked in the shade of oaks. It was a remarkable dream he was having. Dreams were usually thin things, flashes in his mind’s eye. This one, though, was magnificent. The smells, sounds, and textures of the forest were all around him. Wind whispered in the leaves high overhead. He heard birds and small animals calling and scampering in the dead leaves on the ground. Sunlight made sparkling patterns in the air. Remarkable.

Truly remarkable.

“Not so remarkable.”

He stopped, as if rooted to the spot. Leaning against a tree, not five paces away, was his first wife and dearest love.

“Anaya,” he sighed. “You visit my wonderful dream.”

“This is not a dream, Kith.”

She straightened and walked toward him. The green eyes, the dark hair, the Kagonesti face paint—it was all so real. As she scrutinized his face, he rejoiced in her every feature.

“This is not a dream,” she repeated. “You are in a shadowed realm between the light of life and the darkness of death. Our son struck you down with a dwarven hammer, but it was not his will that put the weapon in his hand. Your other son used the Amulet of Hiddukel to bring him down, and you with him.”

Sadness appeared in her eyes. “No one could prevent this destiny for you, my husband, but I have come back to tell you these things. Your son Ulvian must not sit on the Throne of the Sun. He has opened his soul to evil to further his ambition, and he will be the death and ruination of thousands if he is not stopped.”

Kith-Kanan looked past her at the serene wildwood, feeling removed and remote from the terrible tale she’d just related. He didn’t feel as if he’d been struck a mighty blow; instead, he felt as young and strong as he had when he’d first met Anaya. Tentatively he took her hand in his. It was warm and suntanned, and the tips of the fingers were delicately green. “How is it possible, my love? How can I be here with you?”

She lifted her free hand and caressed his cheek. “The gods you worship do not interfere with the ebb and flow of life. They are apart from it, and they allow life to follow its own course. But this place, and my existence, are not part of life or death. The power rules here in eternal balance with Chaos. Now, as a boon to me, the power allows me to see you and tell you the truth.”

“What is this power?” he asked, pressing her hand to his lips.

“It cannot be named, like a flower or a beast. It is the property of order in all things, the counterpart of Chaos. That is all I can say.”

Wind rustled through the closely growing oaks. Kith-Kanan held Anaya’s hand. “Will you walk with me?” he asked gently. She smiled and said yes.

As they strolled down the path, he wondered aloud, “Will I be with you always?”

Green moss softened their footfalls, and the wind lifted Kith-Kanan’s long hair.

“As long as you remember me, I shall be with you,” she replied. “But you cannot remain here much longer. Even as we speak, your mortal body grows cold. You must go back and tell those you love and trust the true story of your death.”

“My death?”

Kith-Kanan mused over the idea, normally so frightening. “I’ve seen many people die, for all sorts of reasons. Is it a sad thing to be dead?”

Anaya shrugged and said with her characteristic bluntness, “I don’t know. I’ve never died.”

He found himself smiling. “Of course not. I’m not frightened, though. Perhaps I will find all those who have gone before me. My father Sithel, my mother, Mackeli, Suzine….”

A large boulder appeared in the path, completely blocking it. Kith-Kanan touched the stone, feeling the lichen and watching a stream of tiny black ants march over it like soldiers conquering a mountain peak.

“This is the end, isn’t it?” he said, turning to face her.

“The end of your time here.” She regarded him solemnly. “Are you sad, Kith?”

He smiled and said, “No. I said good-bye to you long ago. This visit is a wonderful gift. It would be ungrateful to be sad.”

Kith-Kanan leaned over and kissed Anaya softly. She returned his kiss, but already she was beginning to pale. Not daring to end the moment, he whispered into her mouth, “Farewell, my dearest. Farewell ….”

The forest became dark wooden walls and beams. Pain flooded his limbs, and he gasped loudly. There was a pressure on his cheek. Kith-Kanan opened his eyes and realized his daughter was kissing his face.

She drew back. “By Astra!” Verhanna cried. “You’re awake!”

“Yes.” Merciful gods, his throat was raw. “Water,” he gasped.

Verhanna looked distressed. “Water? Will nectar do?”

She had a bottle of nectar beside her that she’d apparently been drinking from. Kith-Kanan croaked his assent, and she carefully put the bottle to his parched lips.

“Ah. Daughter, get some people in here. Witnesses. Tam, the guards…anyone. As fast as you can.”

Verhanna called for help, and guards threw open the door. “Run and get Tamanier Ambrodel!” she said. “The rest of you, come in here. The Speaker has something to say, and he wants you to hear it!”

Seven warriors crowded into the modest bedchamber. Verhanna raised her father up and stuffed a pillow under his back so he could see the warriors. Then she lifted the nectar to his lips once more.

“My good warriors,” Kith-Kanan rasped. The thick white bandage that covered the horrible wound on his forehead didn’t dip low enough to cover his bloodshot eyes. “These are my last commands.”

The elves all leaned forward to catch every sound he made. “My son,” said the Speaker weakly, “is innocent. Silveran is not…responsible…for my death.”

The guards exchanged looks of puzzlement. Verhanna, heedless of the tears that had once more begun to flow down her cheeks, prompted, “Go on, Father.”

“He was bewitched…by the onyx amulet. The evil talisman struck a bargain with…Ulvian.”

Puzzlement gradually turned to anger. Muttering, the warriors fingered their sword hilts.

“Ulvian will die for this, Father, I swear it!” Verhanna said. The guards seconded her vow.

“No!” Kith-Kanan said strongly. “I forbid it! Few are…the mortals who can withstand the sweet words…of Hiddukel. Ulvian—” He coughed hard, and fresh blood began to trickle down his face from under his bandage. “Do not harm…him. Please!”

Verhanna buried her face against her father’s chest. “Father, don’t die!” she pleaded.

“I am…not afraid. Is Silveran…well?”

She lifted her tear-streaked face. “Yes, yes! He has lost his magic, but he is himself again. The madness has left him!”

“I want to see…him.”

Verhanna ordered a guard to fetch Silveran. He was gone several long minutes, so she dispatched two more. When they hadn’t returned after quite a long wait, and Kith-Kanan’s eyelids had begun to flutter closed, she got to her feet and stormed out of the room. Down the corridor at Silveran’s door, she found the three guards she’d dispatched and the three watching the chained prince. Half of the warriors were howling for Ulvian’s blood, the other half were protecting him.

“Get out of the way!” Verhanna said, shoving guards left and right. “The Speaker wants his son!”

“I’ll go to him,” Ulvian said quickly.

“Not you! Silveran!”

“But he’s a murderer!”

Thrusting a finger at her brother, Verhanna cried, “We know the truth! You conspired to destroy Silveran so you could reclaim the throne. Did you also plot the death of our father?”

She whipped out her sword, and the guards stood back, leaving sister and brother facing each other. “I want to kill you so much I could—” She stopped herself. “But Father has forbidden it! Now get out of my way before I forget my promise to him!”

She sheathed her sword and unlocked the door. After hustling Silveran out, she and her half-brother ran down the polished wood floor. They were trailed more slowly by Ulvian and the guards.

Verhanna flew through the open doorway of Kith-Kanan’s room. The four warriors who had remained behind were all kneeling around the Speaker’s bed. His eyes were closed. Verhanna didn’t need to ask; Kith-Kanan was dead.

Tamanier Ambrodel, his hair standing up on his head and his mantle askew, wept openly at the foot of the Speaker’s bed. “I was too late,” he sobbed.

The sergeant of the guard looked up at her. “He called to you, lady,” he said chokingly. “And to someone named Anaya.”

She had to swallow her grief, at least briefly. It was vitally important that her father’s wishes were carried out. “Did you all hear what he told me before he died?” she said frantically.

“Yes, lady,” said the sergeant. The other guards swore oaths that they had heard the Speaker’s words as well. Tersely Verhanna informed Tamanier of Ulvian’s plot against Silveran. Then she pulled Silveran into the room, and the guards rose to their feet.

“The Speaker of the Sun is dead,” the captain said, her voice cracking. “Long live Speaker Silveran!”

“Long live Speaker Silveran!” echoed the warriors.

Silveran’s face was bright as he tried to fathom it all.

“Your Majesty,” Tamanier added, bowing to the new young monarch.

“Where’s Ulvian?” Verhanna asked suddenly. He wasn’t in the Speaker’s rooms or the hallway nearby.

“Shall we search for him, lady?” asked the sergeant of the guard.

“It’s for the Speaker to decide,” Verhanna said softly, putting a hand to Silveran’s shoulder. The warriors looked expectantly at him. The elf’s eyes were calm.

The new Speaker gazed upon his father. “Let Ulvian go,” he said.

Now that she had fulfilled her duty to Kith-Kanan, Verhanna allowed her wobbly legs to give way, and she knelt by her father’s body, weeping uncontrollably. She had loved him and respected him with an intensity that approached worship. She couldn’t bear the thought that he was gone, that she would never again see his face, never again hear his voice, teasing her for her seriousness. Her brother moved to stand behind her and placed his hands on her shaking shoulders.

“I need you, Hanna,” Silveran whispered, for her ears only. “I need your help to rule Qualinesti.”

Verhanna pulled her gaze away from the still face of her father and looked up into the solemn visage of the new Speaker of the Sun. Kith-Kanan had been right. Silveran, once known as Greenhands, would make a fine leader. He was good and kind and incorruptible.

Her voice shook, but the words carried to all those in the room as she responded with the same ancient oath she had once sworn to her father. “You are my Speaker. You are my liege lord, and I shall obey you even unto death.”

With Silveran’s hands still on her shoulders, Verhanna rose slowly to her feet. The guards surrounded Kith-Kanan’s bed and came forward to raise him up. By ancient rite, a dead Speaker was carried to the Temple of Astra for prayers and purification.

“Stop,” Silveran ordered, and Verhanna looked startled. For just that instant, his commanding voice had sounded exactly like their father’s. Silveran held out a restraining hand. A hand no longer green. “This is my duty,” he stated.

With great tenderness, he lifted Kith-Kanan in his arms and carried him down the central stair to the reception hall. Verhanna walked behind him and to his right, and the warriors fell into step behind her.

At the bottom of the cherrywood stair stood the entire household, down to the humblest sweepers. All cried openly, and their heads bowed as the body of Kith-Kanan, founder and first Speaker of Qualinesti, was borne past them. Poor Tamanier Ambrodel was supported by the strong arm of his son Kemian. The aged castellan was so grief-stricken he could barely remain upright. He had one last duty to perform for his old friend and sovereign, though. When Silveran, with his sad burden, reached the bottom of the grand stair, Tamanier lifted his right hand and signaled the group of heralds waiting by the front doors.

The heralds flew out the double doors and ran like lightning across the square and into every part of the city. As the second Speaker of the Sun stepped into the morning sunshine, their high voices could be heard crying the dreadful news.

Speaker Silveran paused, blinking in the bright light. Verhanna felt her own step falter as, one by one, the great bells throughout the city of Qualinost fell silent.