The Qualinesti

18 — Onyx Dreams

In a small room adjoining the Speaker’s bedchamber, Silveran lay sleeping on a simple pallet of blankets spread on the hard tile floor. He was too used to sleeping on the ground to be comfortable on the soft bed. Every night of the week he had been in Qualinost, he’d dragged his bedding onto the floor and spent the night there.

As often happens to those with untroubled minds, he fell asleep quickly and passed the night in harmless dreams of his forest birthplace. The heady changes in his short life had barely impressed themselves on his inner mind, and Silveran did not yet dream of glory or power or the adoration of the people.

The only troubling aspects of his dreams so far were the images of his half-siblings, Verhanna and Ulvian. They did not menace him, but he felt vaguely troubled whenever they appeared. Even the innocent Silveran could sense Ulvian’s hostility, and he did not know what to make of Verhanna’s strange behavior at all. Sometimes she got angry at him for no reason at all.

She loves you, whispered a voice in his dreams.

Like a child, Silveran took the voice for a normal part of his dreamworld. “I love her,” he replied reasonably. “And I love Rufus and my father, too.”

I could have loved, sighed the voice, but you took my life.

Silveran’s brow wrinkled and he stirred restlessly. “Who are you? How have I harmed you?”

A face rushed at him in his mind’s eye. With marble white skin over sunken cheeks, it stared balefully through bleary gray eyes. Its mouth hung slackly open, and its breath reeked of decay and the grave.

Silveran uttered a soft cry and awoke. After some seconds of disorientation, he realized he was in the Speaker’s house. A sigh of relief passed his lips.

The blanket over him twitched as if it were alive. Silveran grasped the satin hem where it lay on his chest and held on. The blanket billowed up, rippling from his legs up to his waist. The elf whipped it away to see what was making it rise. Silveran let out a much louder cry this time, for beneath the blanket, floating only a foot from his nose, was the disembodied face from his dream!

You killed me, whispered the white lips. I was Drulethen of Black Stone Peak, and you murdered me.

“No!! I slew a monster!! It was a noble deed!”

The head floated closer. Silveran threw up his hands to ward it off. Scrambling wildly, he fled the room on all fours.

The connecting door to the Speaker’s room stood ajar, and Silveran banged through it. Hearing his son’s wild cries, Kith-Kanan sat up in bed. Beside his bed, a magical lamp in the shape of a small silver pine tree flickered immediately to life.

“What? What is it?”

It took him a moment to notice Silveran cringing at the foot of his bed. “My boy, what’s the matter?” he asked sleepily.

“Make it go away!” Silveran pressed his face into the dark red drapes hanging from the corners of Kith-Kanan’s bed. “I didn’t mean to do it! I didn’t know!”

The Speaker arose and drew on a light cotton dressing gown. He knotted the sash at his waist and knelt beside his trembling son. “Tell me what’s frightened you,” he said, gently removing Silveran’s clenched fingers from the drapery. The elf related his dream haltingly, including how he’d seen the face of the sorcerer he’d killed at Black Stone Peak.

“It was only a bad dream…a nightmare,” Kith-Kanan whispered soothingly. He stroked his son’s sweat-damp hair. “You never saw Dru in human form, did you?”

“But I woke up and it was still there,” Silveran insisted. “He looked so ordinary in my dream…so thin and frail. Is that who the wyvern truly was?”

“It is true, Son, but the sorcerer is ash and dust now. He cannot hurt you.”

As he spoke, Kith-Kanan tried to ignore his own fears. The link between Drulethen, the sorcerer, and Dru, the manifestation of the god Hiddukel, loomed large in his mind. He didn’t want to see enemies and conspiracies under every stone and in every shadow, but coincidence rarely applied when the gods were involved.

It was a strange scene, the father consoling his fully grown son, rocking the weeping Silveran in his arms. The commotion had reached the sensitive ears of Tamanier Ambrodel, whose rooms were only a short distance down the corridor. The disheveled elf appeared in the Speaker’s doorway holding a candelabrum.

“Sire?”

“It’s all right, Tam,” Kith-Kanan said, waving a hand. “My son had a bad dream.”

“I killed him!” sobbed Silveran.

Embarrassed, Tamanier quietly withdrew. The prince certainly seemed more overwrought than a mere bad dream would warrant.

Silveran’s terror finally lessened, and he was able to compose himself. Kith-Kanan offered to sit up with him, but his son declined to return to his own room. “I would rather sleep here with you,” he said, indicating the hard floor at the foot of the four-poster bed. With a slight smile, Kith-Kanan nodded. He remembered from many centuries past the hollow tree in which he’d lived with Silveran’s mother, Anaya, and her brother, Mackeli. They had slept on the unpadded ground, too.

Kith-Kanan climbed back into bed. He listened for a long time, but Silveran’s only sounds were light, even breathing. The Speaker pondered the mystery of Dru and what the coincidence of names could mean. Was Drulethen really the god Hiddukel in disguise? Did the God of Evil Bargains torment Silveran’s dreams?

The Speaker’s house was haunted.

So the gossip went in the markets and towers of Qualinost in the days that followed. The strange son the Speaker had brought back from the mountains was being hounded by the dreadful specter of a severed head. It made the good folk shudder, yet they repeated the tale. The story was awful, but it was also fascinating.

No one else had seen the ghost—only Prince Silveran was tormented. The specter would not appear to him unless he was alone, and then it persecuted him relentlessly. The robust young elf soon lost his color and vitality as sleep was denied him by the vengeful spirit.

Verhanna and Rufus set themselves the task of always being with Silveran, since the ghost chose never to appear to others. For a time, this worked. With his half-sister or the kender always in attendance, Silveran’s health improved. Then, after many weeks of this happy companionship, the haunting changed.

Verhanna, Silveran, and Rufus were in the garden behind the Speaker’s house. A straw-stuffed sack had been set up, and the warrior maiden was teaching Silveran how to shoot a crossbow. With the passage of time, Verhanna had been able to accept him for what he was—her brother, and very likely the next Speaker of the Sun. She’d grown to enjoy his company immensely.

Rufus jogged back and forth, retrieving arrows that went awry. It was a balmy afternoon, with gray clouds scudding before the wind, chasing the last remnants of summer over the western horizon. The trees were just beginning to show a hint of their autumn brilliance.

Thunk! A quarrel stuck, quivering, in the target. Verhanna lowered the crossbow from her shoulder. She wore a sleeveless red tunic and thin white trousers. On her feet were dainty red slippers, embroidered in gold. These had been a gift from Rufus on her birthday a week before.

“You see,” she said encouragingly, “it isn’t so hard. Even Wart can shoot a crossbow.”

“We kender think bows are cowardly,” Rufus replied airily. “A real weapon is the sling. That takes true skill to use!”

“Sling, ha! Slings are mere toys for children,” scoffed Verhanna.

Silveran sat on a marble bench cunningly shaped to resemble a fallen tree. He’d made a number of tries at the target, but his bolts always went wide. He couldn’t understand it, but his lack of success didn’t seem to bother him. It did, however, vex Verhanna.

“You have eyes like a barn owl,” she grumbled, hands perched on hips. “Why can’t you hit the target?”

“Weapons don’t work well in my hands,” Silveran replied with a shrug. “I don’t know why.”

“Nonsense. Warrior skills run in our family.” She thrust the hunting crossbow into his hands. “Try again.”

“If you wish, Hanna.”

Silveran fitted a quarrel onto the bow stock. Verhanna stood off to his left, Rufus on his right. He raised the crossbow to his cheek and squinted over the wire-bead sight fixed to the end of the stock.

Murderer…

Silveran lowered the bow and shook his head, frowning. Verhanna asked what was the matter. “Nothing,” he said, raising the weapon again.

Murderer…

The green-fingered elf knew that whispering voice all too well. Gripping the crossbow hard, Silveran tried to concentrate on the target, to banish all other thoughts from his mind. He hadn’t been bothered by the specter of dead Dru for over a month. His time had been spent with Verhanna and Rufus, or learning from his father the things that he needed to know as crown prince of the Qualinesti. His days were kept busy, and his nights had been calm since Rufus began sleeping on a small bed in his room.

However, hard as he tried to ignore it, the hollow sound of Dru’s voice filled his ears: Murderer. You killed me.

Green robe flying, Silveran spun around, looking for the terrible face he knew would be hovering nearby. Rufus threw himself flat on the ground as the quarrel tip on the cocked crossbow spun by. He shouted, “Hey! Watch where you point that thing!”

The only sound the Speaker’s son heard was the ghastly sighing of a long-dead elf. He swept around in a circle until he spied the horrible head suspended in space, just above his own eye level. The face of the evil sorcerer was even more decayed now than when he last saw it. The nose was sunken in, the eyes black sockets. The smell of death and putrefaction forced itself into Silveran’s nostrils. He choked and aimed the crossbow at the dead elf’s image.

“Silveran, don’t shoot,” Verhanna said evenly. The quarrel was pointing right at her forehead, only a half dozen feet away. A line of sweat appeared on her upper lip.

“Don’t shoot the captain!” Rufus, still flat on the sod, added his plea to hers.

“Go away,” Silveran quavered. “Leave me alone!”

“I’m not Drulethen,” Verhanna said carefully. Keeping her hands spread apart in front of her, she took a step forward. She continued to speak in calm, soothing tones. “Turn the bow away, Silveran. It’s me, Verhanna. Your sister.”

In Silveran’s fear-crazed mind, the words were different: Time is short, murderer. When the last flesh rots from my bones, I will come to avenge my death on you. Time is short! Look into the face of your death!

Maggots sprouted from the dead elf’s skin. Drulethen’s lower jaw fell away and vanished, leaving a horrid, gaping skull leering at him. Silveran shut his eyes and cried out for mercy. His hand tightened on the trigger bar.

Verhanna threw herself forward and knocked the bow aside. The square-headed quarrel leapt from the bowstring and hissed through the air, burying itself in a high tree branch. Silveran screamed and fought Verhanna, but she managed to pin him to the ground.

“No, no!” he ranted. “I’m sorry I killed you! Don’t hurt me, Dru! I don’t want to die!” Tears coursed down his cheeks.

Guards, servants, and Tamanier Ambrodel came running into the garden, alarmed by the cries. The guards restrained Silveran after Verhanna lifted him to his feet. The prince sobbed something about forgiveness and his own innocence.

“Did you leave him alone?” asked Tamanier quickly. “Did he see the ghost again?”

“We never left his side,” Rufus protested. “My captain and I were teaching Greenhands how to shoot a crossbow.”

Tamanier looked quickly to Verhanna. “Did you see anything untoward, Your Highness?”

She dusted dirt from her knees and shook her head. “I didn’t see or hear anything but Silveran.”

“He almost shot my captain,” blurted the kender.

“Shut up, Wart.”

Tamanier looked grave. “The Speaker must be told.” He folded his wrinkled hands and pressed them hard against his lips. “Forgive me, Highness.”

Verhanna bristled. “What do you mean?”

“His Highness could be ill in his mind.”

Her eyes blazed. “You go too far, Castellan Ambrodel! If my brother says he’s seeing a ghost, then by Astra, there’s a ghost!”

“I meant no offense, Your Highness—”

“Well, you’ve offended me!”

The guards supported Silveran as they walked him back to the Speaker’s house. Tamanier bowed and, white-faced, followed them inside.

Rufus picked up the crossbow and brushed the dirt from the bowstring. “You know, my captain, the old geezer could be right.”

She shook a finger under the kender’s nose. “Don’t you start, too, you noisy beetle!”

The kender turned and stomped away toward the house. Shaking with fury, Verhanna watched him for a second, then snatched up a forgotten quarrel and broke it over her knee. She flung the pieces aside and stalked off into the garden. Soon the warrior maiden was lost from sight as she crashed through the bushes and descended the gentle slope into the deepest recesses of the peaceful garden.

From a window in the Speaker’s house overlooking the upper garden, Ulvian watched the entire scene. He smiled. He was glad his rooms had such an excellent view.

Healers were summoned to the Speaker’s house; priestesses of Quen came and worked their incantations over Silveran—all with no success. Clerics devoted to the worship of Mantis and Astra wove protective spells around Kith-Kanan’s beleaguered son, but still the hideous corpse face of Drulethen tormented him, and him alone.

The Speaker met with the priests and healers. “Is my son bewitched?” he asked solemnly.

The high priestess of Quen, a former Silvanesti named Aytara, answered for all of them. “We have cast healing spells on your son, Great Speaker, and they do not affect him. The good brothers of Mantis have erected barriers to keep out elementals and evil spirits, and still he sees the dread specter.”

Her wide, pale blue eyes never faltered as she gazed at Kith-Kanan. “Prince Silveran is not afflicted by mortal magic, Great Speaker,” the young priestess finished.

“What, then?” he demanded.

Aytara glanced at her silent colleagues. “There are two possibilities, Majesty. Both are distasteful.”

“Speak the truth, lady. I want to hear it.”

“There are potions, poisons, that can corrode the mind. Your son may have been given such a potion,” she said.

Kith-Kanan shook his head. “Silveran and I eat the same foods. No one knows who will eat or drink from any given plate or cup. And I have experienced no such visions. It cannot be poison.”

“Very well. The last possibility is that your son has lost his mind.”

Terrible, icy silence followed the pronouncement. Kith-Kanan gripped the arms of his vallenwood throne so hard his knuckles turned as white as the wood. “Do you know what you’re saying? Are you telling me that my son—my heir—is mad?”

The priestess said nothing. A thought occurred to the Speaker. “My son has demonstrated magical ability in the past,” he ventured. “Can this power not be used to help him?”

“He does indeed have great power, but he is completely untrained. Without much study and practice, he can’t use these powers to help himself.” Aytara’s face was sad.

Kith-Kanan looked to each of the others in turn. All of them hung their heads and remained silent, having nothing further to offer.

“Go,” the Speaker said in a tired voice. “I thank you for your efforts. Go.”

With many bows and flourishes, the healers and clerics took their leave of Kith-Kanan. The Speaker turned away to stare out one of the windows. Only Tamanier remained in the hall.

“My old friend,” Kith-Kanan said to him. “What am I to do? I almost think the gods have cursed me, Tam. I’ve buried two wives, found that one son was a criminal and another may be insane. What am I to do?”

At the far end of the small hall, the aged castellan took in a deep breath. “Perhaps young Silveran has always been troubled,” he ventured. “After all, his early life and birth were not natural, and his powers are wild and uncontrolled.”

The Speaker slumped back on his throne. He felt every day of his five hundred and some-odd years of life weigh upon him like stones in the folds of his robe, or chains laid in long loops around his shoulders.

“I followed all the signs,” he murmured. “Has it all been a terrible hoax? It can’t be. Silveran must be my true heir, I know it. But how can we cure him? I can’t put my crown on the head of a mad person.”

“Sire,” said Tamanier, “I am reluctant to bring this up—especially now. But Prince Ulvian wishes to speak with you.”

The Speaker started, his mind far away. “What, Tam?”

“Prince Ulvian has asked to see you, sire.”

The Speaker gathered his wandering thoughts. With a nod, he said, “Very well. Send him in.”

Tamanier pushed the doors apart. An eddy of wind from the porticoed exterior sent a handful of dead leaves skittering across the burnished wooden floor of the hall. The castellan admitted Prince Ulvian, then departed, closing the doors quietly behind him.

“Speaker,” said Ulvian, bowing from the waist. Kith-Kanan waved for him to approach.

It took Ulvian twenty steps to cross the audience hall. In the months since his return from Pax Tharkas and Black Stone Peak, the prince had radically altered his looks and manner. Gone were the extravagant lace cuffs, the brilliantly colored and astonishingly expensive breeches and boots. Ulvian had taken to wearing plain velvet tunics in dark blue, black, or green, with matching trousers and short black boots. Heavy necklaces and bold gems on his fingers had given way to a simple silver chain around his neck, with a locket containing a miniature of his mother. Ulvian let his hair grow longer, in a more elven fashion, and shaved off his beard. Save for his broad jaw and round eyes, he could have been taken for a full-blooded elf.

“Father, I want you to send me away,” he said after bowing a second time at the foot of the throne.

“Away? Why?”

“I feel it is time to complete my education. I’ve wasted too much time on frivolous pleasures. There are many things I want to learn.”

Kith-Kanan sat upright. This curious request intrigued him. “Where is it you wish to go for this education?” he asked.

“I was thinking of Silvanost.”

The Speaker raised his eyebrows. In a gentle voice, he said, “Ulvian, that’s impossible. Sithas would never allow it.”

Ulvian took a step forward. The toes of his boots pressed against the base of the vallenwood throne. “But I want to learn from the wise elves of the east, in the most ancient temples in the world. Surely the Speaker of the Stars would permit his own kin—”

“It cannot be, my son.” Kith-Kanan leaned forward and laid a hand on Ulvian’s shoulder. “You are half-human. The Silvanesti would not welcome you.”

The prince flinched as if his father had struck him. “Then send me to Thorbardin, or Ergoth! Anywhere!” Ulvian said desperately.

“Why do you wish to leave so suddenly?”

The prince’s eyes dropped before the Speaker’s questioning gaze. “I—I told you, Father. I want to complete my education.”

“You aren’t telling me the truth, Son,” Kith-Kanan contended.

“All right. I want to get away from this house. I can’t bear it anymore!” He jerked out of his father’s grip.

“What do you mean?”

Ulvian fidgeted with his narrow gray sash. Finally he turned away, putting his back to the Speaker. “His screams keep me awake at night,” he said stiffly; “I—I hear him wandering the halls, moaning. I can’t bear it, Father. I know he’s your legitimate heir, and I can’t expect him to go away, so I thought I’d volunteer to leave instead.”

Kith-Kanan rose and walked to his son. “Your brother is ill,” he said. “If it’s any consolation to you, he keeps me awake at night, too.”

The dark smudges under Kith-Kanan’s eyes testified to the truth of his statement. “I wish you would stay and help Silveran, Ullie. He needs a good friend.”

The somberly dressed prince knelt and gathered a handful of red and brown leaves from the floor. Slowly he turned them over, as if studying their wrinkled surfaces. “Do the healers give him any chance of recovery?” he asked, staring at the leaves.

Kith-Kanan sighed. “They don’t even agree on why he is afflicted,” he replied.

Ulvian dropped the leaves and stood. Turning to face his father, the prince said quietly, “If you want me to stay, Father, I will.”

Kith-Kanan grasped his son’s hands gratefully. “Thank you, Ullie,” he said, smiling. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

The prince had never planned to do otherwise. Back in his own quarters, Ulvian ran his fingers lightly down the front of his heavy quilted tunic. The hard lump of the black onyx amulet was there, sheathed in a tight leather bag hanging around his neck.

“My beauty,” Ulvian rejoiced softly. “It goes well! Soon I will be sole and undisputed heir.”

You deserve it, my prince, crooned the amulet for Ulvian’s ears only. Together we will rule.

The prince busied himself putting the finishing touches to the speech he would give when he was made heir to the Throne of the Sun.